


A Study in Recklessness (formerly The Life of Lestrade)

by Lady Moriarty (takingtheTARDISto221B)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, I dont know how I feel about Eurus yet, M/M, Mystrade is life, Season 4 episode 3 spoilers, Season/Series 04, Slow Burn, Story: The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-04-05
Packaged: 2019-10-24 04:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 25,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17697389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takingtheTARDISto221B/pseuds/Lady%20Moriarty
Summary: I'm still working on this story, I have a general idea. I'm working forward from Season 4 right where The Final Problem begins. I think I'll list it as an AU though, because I'm not sure I can keep everything as cannon as I'd like in other respects. Anyways, enjoy!Follow the life of Greg Lestrade. He will experience hope, hurt, love, and laughter.





	1. The Final Problem

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me, I'm great at dialogue, but crap at descriptions which is like 70% of a story. Smh.

Greg did not think anything of it- the day he was having. It had been fairly peaceful at the Yard. No grisly murders, no consulting detectives, hardly any paperwork.

He was almost bored.

 

_Bored. Can you believe it?_

For a moment, during lunch he had wondered where Sherlock Holmes was. On a peaceful day like this he was sure Sherlock was at the very least sulking about, driving John ‘round the bend with how incredibly _bored_ he was. He usually comes around to at least ask about the _dull_ cases, rattling off deductions left and right. He always had a way of making everything so… obvious. Nevertheless, he had heard nothing from Sherlock or John in almost a day. John had wanted to go to the pub last night, and then suddenly cancelled. Maybe they had left town for a case.

The quiet was unusual for him. It made him… apprehensive. He was not used to having calm days at the yard. Once he had finished his lunch, he began on the last of his paperwork. He had finally, after six hours and 4 cups of coffee, caught up to all his emails. You forget your password for two days and suddenly he was the most popular DI at the whole of NSY. Overall, he was satisfied. Almost glad that the criminals in London seemed to be taking a breather for once.

 

In hindsight, he should have kept his thoughts in check a little longer.

 

Sergeant Donovan barged into his office at around noon looking alarmed.

 

“Sir, there’s been an explosion.”

“Fuckin hell. Where?”

The look on her face was restrained. “I’ll give you one guess.”

“What does that even…”

His heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

_Baker Street. 221b. Fuck. John…. Sherlock.... Rosie!_

“Gather everyone, Donovan!” he ordered as he sprung out of his chair and grabbed his coat. Sally was following close behind.  “I’m going now to check on the scene and gather reports.”

“Yes sir.”

He stopped when he reached the door and steeled himself. He gripped the door and took a breath before asking, “Any… casualties?”

After a moment, Donovan answered, “No one is sure, sir, the call came in just moments ago from a witness.”

He took another breath. “Christ, alright…” he said as he opened the door to the met. Greg jerked his keys from his coat pocket. “I’ll see you there. And Hurry!” he called back at her as he jogged to his squad car.

“Yes sir!”

 

_Damn it all, Sherlock, what have you gotten us all into now…_

He should have been used to this; as an officer he was accustomed to hearing about terrible things happening to people: shootings, fires, murders, robberies. However, hearing about those things happening at 221b… it was different...

 

_They’re my family._

 

He would never audibly admit that to John, and never dream of saying such _sentimental drivel_ to Sherlock. They had their own familial issues to worry about. Sherlock was still recovering from having lost John for some time while he was mourning. John was just beginning to move all of his things back into 221b after Mary.

He thought of little Rosie. A bright light in the midst of such terrible circumstances. That little girl had no idea just how loved she was, or how safe.

 

_Hmm… speaking of safe…_

 

As hazardous as it was, Greg reached for his cellphone and looked at the home screen. He was surprised he hadn’t received a call from Mycroft. The man was always calling when anything of significance was happening. He knew very little of the older Holmes brother. Just that he had a “minor position” in the British Government.

 

_Minor my arse._

Greg knew power when he saw it. He’d been kidnapped several times, once as a security check, a few more times for updates. Once after having Sherlock arrested… after his suicide. Greg had never been so sure that he was going to be murdered in his life. Instead, Mycroft asked for details in regards to the Met’s decision to arrest him. Greg hadn’t consented to the arrest, but he had been outnumbered. He apologized. He hadn’t been able to keep Sherlock safe. He had failed. After that meeting, and having to find his way back home on foot in the pouring rain, he wouldn’t see the man for the next two years. It wasn’t until Sherlock resurfaced, that he saw Mycroft again. In all his Holmes-ian glory. The kidnappings then resumed as normal.

He checked his phone again. It was odd.

 

_Maybe he was out of town? No. no. He called even then sometimes. Meeting? Perhaps._

 

Greg decided to ignore it for now. It didn’t matter at this particular moment. What did matter was that he was flying towards Baker Street, where they had already sectioned off an area for the detectives to work. He got out of the car and strode towards the nearest officer.

“I need a report. Was anyone hurt?”

The young officer looked up at him. “No sir, no casualties. Surprisingly the only injuries we’ve been able to assess are just bumps, bruises, and cuts- from the glass.”

“Right. I need forensics to start working on reconstructing the bomb fragments,” He started walking towards the scorched remains of 221b, “the sooner we can get an idea of who or what we’re looking for, the sooner we can find out who’s done this.”

“Uhh… sir?”

Greg had not heard him. He continued, “When Sargent Donovan arrives, tell her that she’s in charge of gathering all of the evidence and forensics reports and bringing them back to the yard. I’ll start on witness statements. Where are John and Sherlock?”

“Well, that’s just it sir. We’ve… already taken their statements. As well as another bloke’s. But… well…” He looked nervously at the ambulances gathered at the end of the barrier.

Greg didn’t have time for this nonsense. “Well? Spit it out. What is it?” he demanded.

“Uh-um well, uh, sir… the occupant… Mr. Holmes told um-us that th-there doesn’t need to b-be an- um- investigation…” He stammered.

“I’m sorry?” Greg was bewildered. A _bomb_ had gone off in his flat. What the hell was Sherlock thinking? Did he already have a suspect? “Why’s that?”

“He- uh- tells us it’s his fault… sir. He’s the one who… blew up the flat”

“What?!”


	2. The Final Problem: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg deals with the aftermath of the explosion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a few hours at work and I spit this out onto a page. It’s long because I managed to think up a bit of dialogue for this chapter. It was adding details that caused me to sit at my desk for like three straight hours. smh. Let me know what you think in the comments. :)

Greg was seething. It was taking everything in his power and self-control not to pin Sherlock to the ground and _throttle_ him.  

“So let me see if I have this correctly…” he spoke slowly and tried to focus on his breathing but the anger bubbled up as each sardonic word left his lips. _“You,_ Sherlock Holmes, _genius_ man of London, _great_ and wonderful consulting detective…”

“You think I’m great?” Sherlock interrupted.

“Shut it!” Greg hollered.

_Breathe Lestrade._

“… A _ccidentally_ pulled the pin… on a _LIVE GRENADE,_ while your _brother, landlady_ , _and BEST FRIEND, who is a NEW FATHER… were ALL in the god damned flat?!_?” Observers be damned, he was angry- no- more than angry, he was _furious_.

_Was there a higher level of anger than that? If there was, he was there._

“Lestrade, as I have told you for the millionth time…”

“You…. You…” He interrupted Sherlock, but quite suddenly couldn’t find the words to say. His hands clenched several times as he tried to keep his composure. Suddenly, a distinct thought crossed his mind.

_Sherlock isn’t that stupid. He would never put John in that type of danger. He… he wouldn’t. Something is going on._

After taking another moment to breathe, Greg ran with the idea. He would get them to tell him what was going on.

“Could we finish here? I have to assess the damages.” Sherlock questioned, as if he hadn’t noticed Greg’s lingering intermission.

“Look Sherlock, do you really think I’m this _stupid_? I’m going to be the one doing the _paperwork_ for this! And YOU!” he pointed at John.

He had a small orange blanket wrapped around his shoulders, sitting on the other side of Sherlock in the ambulance. “What?”

“You expect me to believe this… this…?” he growled.

 _Why was he having such a difficult time with words_.

He knew they were lying, that much he had been fairly certain of, but he wanted them to admit it so that he could get to the bottom of whatever was happening. The flat was still smoldering from the explosion. They could have _died._ He couldn’t believe that they were trying to keep him out of whatever was going on. Greg crossed his arms and put on his best “DI Lestrade” stare.

John only made eye contact with him for a moment before looking at the flat. “It’s what happened, Greg…” John lied.

Greg glared at the both of them, but neither one was going to waver. Lestrade has dealt with some ridiculous circumstances when it came to Sherlock Holmes. He should be used to the pair of them withholding evidence.

Before meeting with John and Sherlock, he had attended to Mrs. Hudson. She seemed all right, wasn’t inclined to fuss. She had smiled and mentioned to him that Mycroft had already promised to pay for the damages and that she was happy that no one was hurt.

 It suddenly occurred to Greg. _Hmm… another Holmes who deals in secrets._ He turned to look at Mycroft.

“Mycroft.”

The man was standing beside his seated brother, typing at his blackberry. He looked up at him. “Yes?”

Greg took a second to look him over. If he hadn’t gotten the report that Mycroft had been looked over by the medics, he wouldn’t have believed that Mycroft had even been in the flat. Very little debris on his tailored suit, and not a wrinkle in sight. Greg was lucky to get through the day without a coffee stain. The man looked as if he has just strolled over from his office. His umbrella was missing though, he almost looks strange without it.

_Focus Greg. Oh… right. Interrogation._

“ _Is_ that, indeed, what happened?” Greg asked pointedly. He watched the other man intently, never breaking eye contact, he begged Mycroft with his eyes to tell the truth, so that he could help.

Mycroft spoke with the polished ease of a diplomat. “Yes, Inspector. It happened _exactly_ as they said.”

Greg said nothing, glancing between all three men before him. Sherlock was picking at the bandaging of his left arm and John wasn’t even looking at Greg. He was, evidently, more focused on the tips of his shoes. Mycroft was the only one who was paying Greg any attention. They made eye contact again, gazing at each other for a full minute before Mycroft spoke.

“Now then, if we are all finished here, Inspector, I must be heading back to my offices.”

Greg took another calming breath. It was almost laughable, how idiotic he felt at the moment. He had rushed in here to make sure that they were alive and unharmed, prepared to bring down the full extent of the law on whomever had attempted to harm them. Instead of help, he was met with the usual mockery of justice. Something inside of Greg snapped. He smiled at Mycroft.

“No, Mycroft… I would stick around just a bit longer.” Greg stated as he reached for something on his belt.

“And why is that, Inspector?” He queried.

“You’re going to need to ride to the station… To bail Sherlock out of jail.”

If he hadn’t been entirely serious, the picture before him would have been laughable. He had managed to stun both Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes into gaping at him. Even wide-eyed John Watson found that this conversation was more important than whatever was capturing his attention on his shoes.

“W-Whatever for?” Mycroft demanded.

“Charges for reckless endangerment and withholding evidence, and whatever else I can tack on along the way to the station. I might add attempted murder, I’ll talk to Sally, she’s more inclined to want to charge Sherlock with that.” Greg smiled at him, as he hoisted Sherlock up.

“Oh, COME ON.” Sherlock hollered as Greg clicked on the handcuffs.

“Greg, please… be reasonable.” John yelled.

“Inspector…”

“No… I don’t think so this time.” Greg interrupted them. “I’ve HAD IT, Holmes. I’m going to _enjoy_ being _unreasonable_!” He directed at Mycroft. “Come on, Sherlock, let’s go.”

“Lestrade! Be serious!” Sherlock barked at him.

“Greg!”

“Inspector.” Mycroft had grabbed hold of Greg’s wrist.

He turned to scowl at him. Mycroft’s grip was firm, but not rough. For the moment that they glared at each other, they both realized that neither was going to falter. Mycroft blinked and softened his face for a moment, releasing Greg’s wrist. “May I speak with you, privately?” he asked gently.

Greg hesitated only a second before tightening the cuffs, for good measure, before sitting Sherlock down on the back of the ambulance again. “Stay.” He instructed.

Sherlock huffed audibly, but said nothing. John gave Greg a wary glance before sitting down next to Sherlock again.

He and Mycroft walked over to a secluded area where they could speak.

_Fuck it._

He reached in his pockets for his cigarettes and a lighter, and lit one up unceremoniously. He caught Mycroft staring at him. Leaning the package towards him he asked, “Want one?”

Mycroft’s eyes looked at the packet, then back up at Lestrade. He reached in and pulled one out, allowing Greg to light it for him. Both men took a few calming drags in a comfortable silence, before either one spoke.

“Inspector…”

“Greg.”

Mycroft sighed. “Gregory, I-”

“Will you just tell me one thing…” He interrupted.

“I- of course.” Mycroft granted.

Greg met his eyes. “Please tell me that Sherlock isn’t actually that… _stupid_.” He took a long drag while listening to Mycroft’s answer.

“I can assure you, Gregory, that my brother is many things, but “stupid” is not one of them.” He paused, perhaps to examine his words. “You know him… you are not as dimwitted as the others. You have known Sherlock quite some time. You have always been… so _kind_ to him. Even when he is undeserving…”

He thought about what Mycroft was saying. Greg was sure that besides John Watson, he was Sherlock’s only other friend in the world. Greg loved Sherlock like a brother, perhaps like an irritating teenage son that he always had to clean up after.

“And yet you all repay my _kindness_ by treating me like I’m a moron of the highest caliber.”

If Greg admitted it to himself, a part of him didn’t mind. He knew what he was going to be up against when he took Sherlock under his wing, but in a sense, he wished that Sherlock knew just how much was at stake for Greg at the yard every time he had to cover for him. He couldn’t do this forever. Mycroft would know that better than anyone. He had been cleaning up Sherlock’s messes his entire life. And here he was, doing it again. _Why were they fighting again?_

Mycroft took a breath. “There are secrets at stake… lives. I- I cannot in good faith entrust them to you… just yet.”

_Wow. Just… wow._

“Lovely.” He muttered as he dropped what was left of his cigarette to put it out.

Any budding appreciation for the man had been suddenly and thoroughly eviscerated. He could be entrusted to give him updates on his man-child of a brother, but not secrets where _lives_ are at stake… at least not _just yet_. Only when they needed a pair of handcuffs.

_See how useful you are, Greg?_

“Gregory, I am… asking you to let me handle this situation.”

“So not _demanding_ this time…” he huffed. “You’re going to appeal to- what- my _kindness_?”

“I am asking you, as a- as a friend. Please.”

_Oh, we’re friends now._

Greg bit the inside of his lip. “I think I want to hear you say it…”

Mycroft furrowed his brows, “Say...”

“That you’re all lying.”

Mycroft paused, and dropped his cigarette to put it out. “Gregory, I-”

“I know…” He interrupted, holding up his hand. “I’m well aware what has to go into the report. I’m not dimwitted, remember?”

He and Mycroft continued to stare at each other.

_He’s not going to say a damned thing…_

As Greg began to walk away, he felt a familiar grip of his wrist again.

“What?” He asked without turning.

“Yes.”

Greg’s face scrunched in irritation as he turned to stand face to face with Mycroft. They were inches from each other. He could smell a mixture of aftershave and cigarette smoke. Mycroft examined him, his fingers still clasped around his wrist.  “Yes, what?”

_I don’t think he’s ever touched me this long before. Wait, where did that thought come from?_

As if he had heard, Mycroft released his wrist. “We fabricated a story to give to the Met. I need time to handle the situation and I will be taking the reports once they are filed.”

 _Wow. Honesty hour._ “Alright.”

“I am sorry…”

“Don’t bother.” He interrupted as he walked away. Mycroft was a step away.

“I will be sending my PA to gather all of the reports once they have been filed.”

“Fine. Sherlock your free to go.” He tossed the key to John. As he started to walk away, he paused to turn to look at them.

“By the way,” he began as all three l glanced at him. Sherlock was rubbing his wrists, and glowering at Greg, “don’t- don’t call me. For a bit. For cases. For anything.”

“Greg…” John was visibly wounded by his words. Even the glower on Sherlock’s face was replaced by a confused stare.

“No… just, no. I obviously can’t be _entrusted_  for a while.” He directed that statement at Mycroft, earning him a displeased frown.

Mycroft opened his mouth to say something, but before he could speak Greg was walking away.

_Sod this day, sod his life, sod the Holmes brothers, and sod 221 fucking b._

“Unbelievable.” He muttered to himself as he walked away.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to my first commenter @themadnessofmystrade. Your support brought this chapter into the world! Thank you.


	3. The Final Problem: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DI Lestrade gets some interesting phone calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [SPOILERS]  
> *Flashback timeee* 
> 
> This chapter takes place three days before the explosion at Baker Street, and ends the evening before John and Sherlock invade Mycrofts house (for those of you who have seen the episode).
> 
> Enjoy!

**Three Days Earlier**

Greg was at his wits end.

He had been chasing the Sullivan Brothers for weeks. They’d graduated from petty theft to armed robbery. Pillaged, now, three separate banks, and left almost no leads as to where they were hiding out. Greg ran his hands through his silver hair as he stared at the crime scene photos before him. _There was nothing. NOTHING. How is that even possible?_

He rubbed his eyes with his palms and groaned while he stretched in his chair. His back gave out a cracking noise as he stretched his trapezius muscles.

_I need to get up. Getting too old for this shit._

As he looked up, he realized that most of his team was gone. His brows furrowed as he glanced at his watch. _10:47. Fuck._

He ran an exhausted hand over his face. He’d been staying late for more than a week, sometimes intentionally… most times on accident; paperwork had a way of taking over his desk and his life. After a while, the days started to blend. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d had any time to himself.

Donovan’s knocking on the open door dragged him out of his thoughts.

“You plan on stayin here all night?”

“What’s your excuse?” He quipped as he started to gather his things.

“Had to finish reports. How’s that going?” she glanced down at the crime scene photos he had been gathering.

“I’ve got nothin Sal.” He grumbled. “Nothing. It’s bleedin’ impossible.” Greg lifted his arms and pressed his hands along the back side of his neck, trying to get the rest of the tension out of his spine. “There is no connection between the banks, different security systems, different vaults, no forensics pointing to where their hiding, and to top it off the money’s just _vanished..._ They were in and out in just under 20 minutes each, but they left nothing behind. It’s going to drive me into an early grave if I can’t figure this out.”

She smirked at him, “Does that mean I can have your job?”

“Oh, ha, ha.” He shook his head as he grinned back at her. He knew she meant no malice towards him. At one time, he may have been concerned, after both Sherlock and Richard Brook _(or Moriarty or whatever the hell his name is)_ had disappeared and turned up dead. He and Sally had to deal with their strained relationship for quite some time. Sally had been professional about it, Greg, he had to admit, had not been quite so forgiving.

The proof that came out of Sherlock’s innocence and reappearance caused a rift at the yard for months. There were those that were glad to have the genius returned to them, and those who’d have rather he stay dead.

They had patched things up eventually; Greg wasn’t sure exactly when, or how; he was just glad he had a sergeant he could trust again. He didn’t exactly know where Sally fell on the subject of Sherlock Holmes. He just knew that she still thought he was a _freak_. That’s why the question she asked surprised him when it came from her mouth.

“Have you tried Holmes?”

He had. Unfortunately, to no avail. “He won’t take it... Said I should have the mental capacity to put the pieces together, if I can find them. _It’s ‘obvious’._ ”

The look in her eyes told him everything he needed to know about how she felt. “I can’t believe you still speak to him sometimes, Lestrade.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“You’re not an idiot…” She reassured him. “And you don’t need Holmes to help you with this case. You’re a good DI. You’ll figure it out.”

Greg sighed heavily. He knew all of those things, somewhere in the back of his mind. It was good to hear them coming from someone else though, reassurance. It may take him a few more weeks, and hopefully no one would get hurt, but they would slip up eventually. He’d get to feel the satisfaction of tossing them in prison, with or without Sherlock Holmes.

“But…” Sally continued, “you’re not going to get anywhere if you’re passed out on your desk.”

They both chuckled. “Go home, get some sleep.”

“Yes mum.” He teased.

She snickered and walked out the door and into the hallway. “I’ll see you bright and early, Lestrade!”

**********

Greg groaned the second he hit the bed. He hadn’t even mustered up the energy to take a shower. He munched on some Pringles that he’d brought with him into the bed, still in his work clothes. It wasn’t as if he cared if he got crumbs everywhere. As if he had anyone else that would complain. Not since...

_Nope. Not going there._

He tried to distance his mind from Victoria as quickly as possible by getting up and getting ready for bed. His ex-wife was a constant sore spot for him. She’d cheated; plain and simple. Greg tried, over and over and over again to make her happy, but she always came back around to the same conclusion. She blamed him. For working too much. Not being with her enough. Missing dinners, dates, and family gatherings for work. Greg had finally had enough when he came home and caught her in bed with the neighbor.  Simple fact was, she didn’t want to be a policeman’s wife, which was fine; At the end of the day, he didn’t want to be a cheater’s husband.

_Lay off it, Lestrade. She’s gone. Be happy._

He wished it _were_ that simple. As he stared up at the ceiling in his tiny flat, he often wondered if he would ever feel that type of happiness the beginning of his marriage had brought him. “The honeymoon phase” they’d called it. Greg just wanted that back. He just wanted to be able to come home to someone who was glad to see him, cook them dinner, maybe open up a bottle of wine, cuddling on the couch could turn into hold them in bed, hands stroking towards places that caused his pulse to spike…

_Fuck... It’s been so long._

He closed his eyes and tried to relax. He’d need the energy in the morning, to go back over the case files he’d been putting off in favor of trying to crack the Sullivan case. Just as he was on the edge of sleep, he heard his phone vibrate.

 _What the hell._ He groaned.

_Who’s texting me at 12am?_

 

** 1 message from Unknown **

 

_What the hell._

He opened his messages and furrowed his brow in confusion as he read it.

**Without your love, he’ll be gone before. Save pity for strangers, show love the door.**

_Some poor drunk idiot, probably._

He typed out a quick reply.

**Sorry mate, wrong number.**

He closed his phone and laid down again.

His phone vibrated again.

 _Seriously?_ He opened it again and read.

**My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom. Inside, brother mine -Let Death make a room.**

He shook his head, decided not to entertain them anymore, and didn’t bother responding. The poor bastard would realize his mistake in the morning.

**********

It was some time in the very early morning when Greg realized his phone was vibrating like mad.

Greg groaned after looking at his alarm clock. _3 am._ It was probably Donovan, waking him up after getting a call. He reached for it and slid his finger across to answer.

“Yeah, Donovan, what is it?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Hello? Sal, I can’t hear you.”

There was no answer, but there was a faint noise. It almost sounded like humming. He looked at the caller ID.

 **Caller unknown**.

 _What the hell._ “Who is this?” He demanded.

The humming was audible now. It was a woman. She took a soft breath and began to sing in a monotone voice.

_“I that am lost, oh who will find me?_

_Deep down below the old beech tree.”_

Greg was frozen, he didn’t know what was going on. The woman just continued to sing.

_“Help succour me now the east winds blow._

_Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.”_

What she sang next caused a chill to run through his body.

_“Without your love, he’ll be gone before._

_Save pity for strangers, show love the door._

_My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom_

_Inside, brother mine -Let Death make a room.”_

Just as suddenly as it had started, there was silence.

Greg dared not to even breathe.

_Should I say something?_

“Um… I think you might have the wrong number.”

He was met with more silence from the other end. _This is getting creepy._

When he mustered up enough courage, he asked, “Who is this?”

Again, there was no response. Then the line went dead. Greg stared at his phone for a moment. He shivered a bit. 

_What the fuck was that?_

It was by far, the strangest thing he’d ever experienced. There was no way he was sleeping after that. He grumbled and tossed aside his duvet, mumbling something unintelligible about idiot drunks and pranksters, as he tottered over and started his shower. He knew, in the back of his mind, it was his way of reassuring himself that it really had been a prank call, a mistake.

But he couldn’t shake the deep seeded sense of dread that he felt.

But that could wait till after the Sullivan case was closed.

********

2pm

Greg hadn’t slept since the call at 3 am. His shower had done him some good, but he was still on the bring of exhaustion. After downing his fifth cup of coffee for that day and stifling the millionth yawn, he thought about taking off early. Nothing major had come up since he had come in, at least, nothing that Donovan couldn’t handle herself.  She’d already been giving him shit for being half-dead for most of the day.

Her finger poking at his face was what woke him up from his afternoon nap. He had sat up immediately, shaking the sleep out of his head and wiping away a bit of dribble that had made its way on the file he’d fallen asleep on.

“I thought I said to go get some rest boss.”

“I did... just got up early.” He stated groggily.

He wasn’t sure that he wanted to tell her about the phone call just yet. _I mean, it could have been a fluke right?_ Some senseless girl got the wrong number and still didn’t notice. Maybe it was a windup. But Greg wasn’t fixing to let some silly woman freak him out... _well... not for long anyways._

“Got up early? What’re you a comedian now? You look half-dead, Greg. Actually, you look like Sherlock Holmes experimented on you all night.” She jibed.

“Hardy-har, Donovan. You’re so _clever_.” He remarked.

She grinned at him. “That’s why you keep me ‘round boss.”

“Oh, is it?” He ran a hand along his mouth, checking for more dribble. “How long was I out?”

“About half an hour. I closed your door when Harris walked by. Told him you took a late lunch.”

“What’d he want?”

“Asked if you needed help with the Sullivan case.”

“Ah.” DI Harris had been trying for a week straight to pry the Sullivan case from him. However, Lestrade was not fixing to let him have it. He was close to something; he could feel it. He was just missing a connection… somewhere.

“Anyways, I came in to tell you that a call just came in about a hotel robbery.”

He groaned internally.

“Where at?”

“Gutter. If I remember correctly.”

Greg hoped this would be a quick trip. He wasn’t sure if he could handle standing for more than an hour.

“Alright. I’ll meet you there in a bit.” He grunted as he got up out of his chair.

“Sounds good.”

********

 

Greg was going to collapse.

Four hours, a police chase on foot, and a tousle with a robbery suspect had left him sitting at his desk, contemplating retirement. He needed to sleep. Desperately. His throbbing headache is what eventually gave him the kick to get up and leave. He gathered his things and dragged himself to over to Sally’s desk. She looked up at him amusedly.

“Look at you. Taking an early day,” she teased.

He sighed, “I don’t even have a quip for you right now, Sal. I’m... I’m fuckin tired.”

“I can see. Go on old man, we’ll cover for you.”

He smiled sleepily. “First sign of trouble you call me, understand?”

“Yeah, yeah,” she waved her hand at him, “go get a full eight and a half boss. We’ve got it covered.”

“Thanks Sal.”

He took a cab home, because he didn’t trust himself to drive. As soon as his door opened, he didn’t even bother with any of the lights, he just went straight to his bed after locking the door. The moment Greg’s head hit his pillow he was asleep. He slept, and dreamt, but not well. Years of murders and gruesome crime scenes will do that to you. He was restless, dreaming about the streets of London.

In his sluggish haze, he heard his phone chiming.

_Fuckin hell. My alarms are getting earlier by the day._

No sooner did he become cognizant, did he realize his phone was ringing.

 _Shit._ He groaned.

He reached for it and answered.

“Lestrade.”

 

_“I that am lost, oh who will find me?_

_Deep down below the old beech tree.”_

 

Greg sat straight up in his bed. _This is not a prank._

“Who the fuck is this?” He growled. The woman ignored him and continued to sing.

 

_“Help succour me now the east winds blow._

_Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go.”_

 

“Listen, I’m giving you- a warning... stop!” He barked as he attempted to interrupt her. If she heard him, she ignored it and kept singing.

 

_“Without your love, he’ll be gone before._

_Save pity for strangers, show love the door.”_

 

Greg stayed silent. He could feel his heart beating through his chest. The hair on his arms was standing up straight and the panic stifled his breathing with each word she sang.

 

_“My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom_

_Inside, brother mine -Let Death make a room.”_

 

There was a sudden silence. Greg took his chance.

“Who are you?”

Nothing.

“What do you want?”

More silence.

“Say something _damnit_ or I’ll...” _God, what the hell is this._

He could hear her soft breathing on the other end. Finally she spoke.

“Sweet dreams, Detective inspector.”

The line clicked dead.

Greg continued to hold the phone to his ear. Frozen in silence.

_Holy fuck._

He looked at his alarm. 3:04 am.

_Fuck._

********

 

Greg hadn’t slept again. After last night he wasn’t sure he’d sleep _ever again._ He looked at himself in the mirror that morning.

 _Damn, my bags have bags._ He splashed water in his face in an attempt to get rid of his weariness and the bloodshot look in his eyes.

_I feel like I belong on Molly’s slab. I might actually get a good night sleep if I use one of her slabs._

He had taken extra precautions that morning. Checking his windows and doors every hour. He made sure to keep a pocketknife handy on his way to the Yard. During the cab ride he was contemplating whether or not he was going to tell Sally what was going on. It had been two nights now that the same deranged woman had called. She hadn’t threatened him, but she knew who he was… Well, she knew he was an inspector at the very least. His mind couldn’t help but replay the lyrics over and over. Her voice in itself was… _haunting._ He merited some glances as he made his way into the station, and he could hear a pause in the conversation volume as he walked towards his office.

_Damn, I guess I look pretty rough._

There was a manila folder on his desk, but he quickly dismissed it as something Sally must have left for him in favor of going to raid the break room of anything with caffeine. He mixed himself a cup of coffee, ignoring his usual sugar and cream intake. It was bitter and warm as it traveled down and heated away the stress that had been bothering at him all morning. Even though he had just arrived, he decided to have a quick smoke before locking himself in his office all day. He wasn’t sure he could face the stares from the other yarders for the entirety of the day.

He snuck to his office to grab his secret pack and lighter and made his way outside without drawing too much attention. The first puff relieved him of any leftover stress he was feeling.

_God, I miss these._

Greg had allotted himself one cigarette a week… two if it was a particularly stressful one. But never more than that. He’d had one this morning at 4 am after the phone call, but this one made him feel alive again. He would be itching for another one before the week was over, but he knew he needed to restrain himself. He saw what smoking did to his grandfather, and again to his father when he passed… He examined the one in his hand. The smoke reminded him of the pub that he frequented with the yarders. There were always quite a few smokers in attendance… Maybe he would be lucky and sit near some when he went today with John…

_Oh, bloody hell…_

He suddenly remembered that he had plans with John that evening. They had been planning to watch the Arsenal game at the pub. He pulled out his phone and sent a quick text.

**We still on for the game? G**

He pocketed his phone and took a few more drags before putting it out. Just as he was going to make his way back into the yard, his phone chimed.

**Shit. So sorry mate... Sherlock roped me into a stakeout tonight. JW**

He couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed. It had been a long time since he’d gone to a pub with John.

**Don’t worry about it. It’s alright. G**

He re-read John’s last text.

**Need backup? G**

Sherlock on a stakeout usually spelled bad news for him. The man had a distinct talent for enticing danger wherever he went.

**We should be alright. I’ll ring you if anything changes. JW**

Well, so much for his plans.

He went back to his desk and started reading emails. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the envelope on his desk again. He pulled it out from beneath some others and opened it. Something fell into his lap. He picked it up and examined it. It was a _stick_... of some sort. A little limber thing with green leaves and fuzzy bulbs. He set it aside and looked at the file. It was a cold case, oddly enough. A boy had gone missing after a play date, but nowhere in the file did it mention from where. There was very little in terms of suspects, and absolutely no evidence of foul play. The child had simply vanished. He picked up the photo. _Cute kid._ He read his name at the bottom: Victor Trevor. He wondered where the file had come from. There was no mention of the foliage in the file either. He picked it up again, twisting and turning it in his hand to examine it, and wondered where it came from. As he was scrutinizing it Anderson walked by. He noticed the man stop and backpedal into Greg’s office.

“Better not let Kelly get anywhere near you.” He stated seriously. “She’ll have a sneezing fit for hours!”

“What, this?” Greg asked, holding it up for Anderson to see. “D’ya know what it is?”

“Sure do,” Anderson smiled. “ _Salix caprea_ or Goat Willow in normal terms. Looks like it just bloomed too.”

_Willow?_

“Did... did you just say willow?”

“Yeah?”

_A blooming Willow._

“And you’re sure?” Greg questioned sternly.

Anderson shrugged. “Fairly, yeah.”

“Thanks...” Greg said solemnly as he looked over the willow branch again. Anderson took that as his cue to leave.

Almost as clear as day Greg began to hear her voice in his head.

_“My soul seek the shade of my willow’s bloom_

_Inside, brother mine -Let Death make a room.”_

He put down the branch and rubbed his face in exhaustion as he looked at the file again. Someone wanted him to pay attention to this cold case.

_But who?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone for the wonderful comments! It's really been giving me the courage to put out this story as it comes to me. I've finaly figured out the direction I want it to go in. :) I will try to update as often as I can.


	4. The Final Problem: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is faced with a challenge. And what kind of challenge would it be if lives weren't in danger?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience, I was having trouble writing Eurus in this chapter... so I did what any reasonable Sherlockian would do and watched "The Final Problem" over and over and over again until I could giggle at her twisted jokes... totally normal. :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**The Present**

Greg was sitting in his car, leaned back in his seat with the windows open so that the smoke coming from his lungs could billow out. It was difficult to determine what he was feeling at the moment. On the one hand, he was so angry and frustrated and cross that he couldn’t see straight, on the other he was distraught at the thought that the Holmes brothers still didn’t believe he was “trustworthy”.

 

_Come on Lestrade, that’s not what they said._

_Your right... it’s what Mycroft said._

_He didn’t mean that, and you know it. He does trust you. He trusts you to look after Sherlock, to keep him safe._

_Does he though…?_

 

He took a long angry puff and watched the smoke billow around him. He was having his fifth cigarette that week. _Fifth._

 

_You’ll put yourself in an early grave at this rate, Lestrade._

_So…?_

He closed his eyes and wondered if he had an hour to spare to take a nap in his car. He figured he deserved one after the night he had. His body had jolted him awake from a nightmare at about 4:15. After some consideration, he realized it was odd that his mystery woman hadn’t called again.

 

_Perhaps the whole thing really was a prank._

He still couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something odd about the whole series of events: the phone calls, the file, the willow branch.

 

 _Victor Trevor_.

 

There was still a missing or dead kid out there.

_Do you really think he’s dead?_

_He hasn’t been seen or heard from since he disappeared._

_It’s odd, isn’t it, that there’s so little in the file…_

Greg considered the thought. It proved a point. There was so little in the file, a simple documentation that an investigation had taken place and that the child had been deemed missing, but no more than that. Where were the newspaper clippings? Where were the incident reports? Parent statements? Who was the family he was staying with when he disappeared? All of those details, missing from a child missing persons… it was unheard of. Almost as if the file…

His internal struggling was interrupted by the sound of his phone chiming. He thought perhaps it was Donovan, asking where he’d gotten to after leaving the crime scene. He picked it up off the dashboard to look at it.

 

** 1 Message from Mycroft Holmes **

****

Lestrade bit the inside of his lip irritably.

_What the hell does he want?_

He tossed the phone back on to the dashboard and sat back. For a moment, he thought about deleting the message without reading it. It wasn’t as if Mycroft wouldn’t find another way to get the message through to him. He’d email, or send his PA, or… something.

 

_He might send a fucking carrier pigeon if it was important enough._

Despite himself, Greg snickered at the thought. He could imagine Mycroft Holmes looking entirely repulsed, in one of his posh suits, auburn hair combed back, covered in feathers and bird shit after handling carrier pigeons.

 

_Oh God, I think I would give my kidney to see that…_

Mycroft might be obtuse at times…

_but he isn’t completely insensitive._

 

He picked up the phone again and unlocked the screen.

 

**My PA has informed me that the reports have been retrieved from New Scotland Yard. I do apologize for any inconvenience, Gregory, and I appreciate your assistance. You are indispensable. Thank you. MH**

The corner of Gregs mouth turned up to a small smile.

_Indispensable. Does he really think that?_

_I thought you were mad?_

_Maybe I changed my mind._

 

Greg wondered if he should respond. At the moment he didn’t see a point. He wasn’t even sure that Mycroft was the texting back-and-forth type. As long as he could remember, the man had always preferred to have him kidnapped than send a text.

 

_I should thank him though, right?_

_You want to thank him… for thanking you?_

_No, I want to thank him for… saying those nice things…_

Even if Greg had decided to type out a message, he wasn’t sure what he would say. I mean, he had just had a fight with the man at 221B over the nature of the explosion. There was a high probability that he was just trying to reconcile the acquaintanceship for Sherlock’s sake.

 

_But what if he actually means it?_

Greg quickly brushed that idea from his mind. Mycroft was bound to have plenty of _indispensable_ people at his every disposal. Greg wasn’t any different then one of his lackeys. Despite having very limited knowledge of what Mycroft Holmes did, he knew the man probably made most of not all of the decisions that run the whole of England before brushing his teeth in the morning.

Against his better judgment, he sent:

 

**Thanks.**

He regretted the moment he hit send.

_He’s going to think you’re a complete arse._

_Since when does it matter what Mycroft Holmes thinks of me?_

 

Greg’s train of thought was derailed by a soft knock on his window. He sat up to see who was. Sally was standing there outside his window, arms crossed, looking very annoyed. Greg sighed and rolled down the window completely.

“Yeah?”

“What are you doing?” She asked incredulously.

Greg looked at her in confusion. “What do you mean what am I doing? I’m smoking.” He held up his cigarette as if to accentuate his point.

After a beat, Sally said, “You’re sitting in your car.”

Greg rolled his eyes in irritation. “Brilliant deduction, Donovan. And?”

“You never sit in your car and smoke.”

 

Just to spite her, he took a drag and exhaled as he sat back in his seat. He knew he was being childish. His irritation was with The Holmes brothers; Sally didn’t deserve the shit he was giving her. He glanced in her direction and watched as she leaned on the car.

 

_This wasn’t about the smoking… was it?_

“I heard about what happened.”

“And?”

She didn’t say anything. Instead, she smiled and tried to smother her snickering.

“What’s so funny?” Greg demanded.

She let out a full laugh before answering, “I can’t believe you tried to arrest Sherlock Holmes without me!”

 

Despite himself, Greg bit his lip and tried to hide his smile, but evidently Sally noticed and they both simultaneously laughed much harder.

“You shoulda seen it Sal,” he gasped out, “the look on his face. I was serious too- I had this whole plan-” He could barely speak without erupting in peals of giggles.

“Why didn’t you call me? I would have helped you drag him in!”

They both stayed there giggling and catching up on their breathing until Greg put out his cigarette on the lid of and old coffee cup. He sighed and leaned his head back on the seat staring at nothing in particular. He could feel her gaze.

 

“You alright?” She asked.

He cast his eyes towards her, unmoving, and then looked directly ahead of him again. He was recalling their conversation from two nights ago. He didn’t say anything for a moment, and when he finally did, he felt as if the words weren’t even his own. “Do you think…” he sighed and turned his head to look at her again. “Do you _really_ think I’m a good DI?”

 

_Woah… where did that come from?_

Evidently, Sally was thinking the exact same thing by the look she was giving him. He admittedly sagged a bit more in his chair. Embarrassed that he was looking for reassurance… _again._

Sally didn’t say anything to him, instead, she went around to open the passenger side door and sat down in the car with him. “Alright. What’s going on, Greg?”

He grimaced a bit. “Honestly, it’s nothing Sally… I’m just… feeling down is all.” He ran his hands through his hair, “I feel like this day has gone to shit and it’s just barely started.”

 

Somewhere in Greg’s mind, he knew that he shouldn’t put too much stock in the fallout he’d had with the Holmes Brothers today, but the whole situation was nagging at him. For years, he had allowed Sherlock and John to operate outside the law. Which was all well and fine, until there was trouble: Moriarty, Magnussen, even everything that happened with Mary. Greg new he couldn’t keep up with it forever, eventually there would be a fallout, a consequence for their inattention, and Greg would be the one to pay the price. He also knew he was willing to do it, to risk everything, if it meant keeping London safe, and if it meant keeping Sherlock and John safe as well; he only wished Sherlock were more forthcoming. He wished he had Mycroft on his side as well. The man valued privacy, yes, but Greg couldn’t help but wonder if it would be worth it, to keep Greg in the loop. Then again, perhaps he was too _slow_ to keep up.

 

Sally sighed as she addressed him, “I know we haven’t talked in a while, you know, _properly_ talked, like we did… after Victoria.” She cringed, knowing Greg didn’t want to hear about her. “I just want you to know that you can come to me… if you want.” She shifted in the seat. “I know that things haven’t been the same… since Sherlock… But you’re a damn good DI, Greg Lestrade. You proved that while he was gone, and you did it again when that cocky bastard came back.” She paused for a moment to search for the right words, “I wouldn’t want anyone else at the helm of this team. Not even me…”

That revelation, especially coming from Sally Donovan, was overwhelming. It meant the world to him that Sally still trusted Greg with her job, with her life at times. He smiled and looked away, afraid that he would make the situation awkward and uncomfortable.

She exhaled loudly and stated, “Well, that’s enough _feelings_ for now.”

They both snickered. “I’ll see you inside yeah, boss?”

“Yeah. Thanks… Sal.”

“See you.” She slid out of the seat, prepared to walk away, but then turned and leaned back in.

“And I’m taking these…” she stated as she plucked the cigarette cartridge from his dashboard and shut his door on the way out.

He chuckled and let her go. It was for his own good anyhow.

********

 

7:30 pm

 

After filing away two solved cases and finishing some paperwork on the Sullivan case, Greg decided to start sifting through his emails. One in particular caught his eye. It was from an unknown email, but it somehow had made its way to his inbox. In the subject was two words.

 

**_Miss me?_ **

****

He rolled his eyes; no doubt the message had simply made its way through on accident. He simply sent it to his deleted folder. No use answering spam. He answered a few other emails, none were very pressing, thankfully. One was from DCI Hale asking about the progress on the Sullivan case.

 

_How do I say, ‘I feel like I am out of my depth, but would not like any help because my pride is out of control’?_

There were a few officers still lingering around, waiting for eight o clock to arrive, but most had already left for the night. Greg considered staying late in his office; he could look over the Sullivan case files again…

 

Greg’s phone vibrated and lit up. His blood ran cold as he read the name on the screen.

 

** Incoming call from Unknown **

Greg held the phone in his hand, contemplating what to do. He knew he shouldn’t answer, but what if she had important information about the kid? What if she was just egging him on? What if she was following him?

Before Greg could answer, the phone went to voicemail. He breathed a small sigh of relief.

 

_Guess I won’t be hearing from her tonight._

 

Greg turned off his phone and decided to toss it in the desk drawer. He was determined to crack the Sullivan case, tonight, no distractions. His desk phone started to ring. He picked it up.

“DI Lestrade.”

 

_“I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree.”_

_Are you fucking kidding me?_ He stared at his office phone, there was absolutely no way that this woman got past the front desk.

_“Help succour me now the east winds blow. Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go!”_

“Enough!” Greg roared. “Stop! Just- stop!” Greg was in a way, glad that he had decided to close his office door for the night. Then again, he desperately hoped someone would walk in and help him.

The silence on the other end of the line was unnerving. He tried to control his breathing now that he was aware of just how loud it was.

“You should have answered, Detective Inspector.” She drawled.

He didn’t respond.

 

 _What does she want?_ He almost wished he hadn’t asked.

 

“Detective inspector, would you like to play?”

“Play?” he questioned confusedly.

“Yes. Would you like to play a game with me?”

“Look, I- I don’t know who you are or what sick, twisted game you think you can drag me into, but I will not be pl-”

“Why is it that you pets can never be _entertaining_?” She complained, “You both are _so_ _dull and predictable.”_

_Both?_

 

“Tell me who you are and what you want.” Greg demanded.

“I am the east wind, Inspector.”

“Th-the east wind?”

 

_What the hell is this?_

 

“Jim said you’d be slow, I thought he was being dramatic.”

“What-”

“Jim. Jim Moriarty. You met him before, probably picked up the tiny pieces of his brain once… he told me, he said you were going to need a _push_.”

 

_Jim Moriarty? He’s dead. He’s-_

“A- push?”

“Yes, yes, a push, an incentive. A _reason_ to _play_ the game.”

“Jim Moriarty is dead. Sherlock said so,” he bit out.

“Do you listen to everything that Sherlock tells you?”

“I-”

“What about Mycroft?” she interrupted.

“Wh-What about him?”

“Do you listen to everything he says?”

“I-”

“Mycroft _does_ love to assert himself. It makes him feel _big_. _Big_ man, in a _big_ city, doing _big_ things. _Important_ things. He loves power, he _craves_ it, and he _yearns_ for it. I am quite positive he _loves_ asserting it over you.”

“Mycroft… doesn’t-”

“Does he make you feel _special_ , _Inspector_?” She drew out the last two words with an air of seething irritation.

Greg didn’t know how to respond to her. He opted to keep quiet and listen.

“Of course, he makes you feel special, he makes you feel wanted, and you do _so love_ to be desired, Inspector. It’s one of the reasons he keeps you around. You make it _so_ easy for him.”

Greg’s mind went back to that moment in his car.

 

_Indispensable…._

_Maybe he really was just using me...._

_Reconciling for Sherlock’s sake..._

_Just another lackey..._

_Unimportant..._

_Ordinary..._

_Dull..._

“I know you’re there, Detective. I can hear you thinking…” She sang.

“What do you want?” He whispered.

“I’ve already told you, I want you to play a game with me.”

“I’m not playing any games with you.” He growled.

“I see.” She said calmly, “I hope that you will allow me to add some context to the situation.”

“Context?”

“I sent you an email, did you receive it?”

“I…”

 

_Email? What email? What-_

Then it hit him.

_Miss me?_

 

“Yes.”

“Clever boy. Please, open it.”

“I don’t…”

“Open the email, Detective Inspector,” She berated.

Greg stilled his shaking hand long enough to drag the mouse and wake up his computer. He opened his deleted email file and clicked on the email in question. On his screen was a video, he could clearly make out the faces of Mycroft, John and Sherlock. They were in a room, a dark room, with a coffin. Sherlock looked manic, John was worried, even Mycroft…

_Is that a gun?_

“Oh my god,” Greg breathed.

“I’ll make this simple for you, Detective Inspector, if you play the game and follow the rules as I outline them; I will not kill Mycroft Holmes.”

_Christ._

“What about John and Sherlock?”

“John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are perfectly safe, for now.”

 

_For now…_

 

“Look, let’s be reasonable for a moment…”

“Are you going to play?” she questioned emphatically.

 

Greg’s mind was reeling. What could he do? He could hang up, go on a search, call in everyone, but he had no idea where they were or where to even start. He had no choice. He couldn’t just abandon Mycroft with this deranged woman.

“If I- play… you won’t kill Mycroft?”

“I will spare his life, yes. Otherwise, bang, dead, gone.” Greg’s heart started beating wildly in his chest. “This is his redemption, Inspector. An, experiment, of sorts. I wanted to see if anyone else cares for him. I want to see if the Iceman himself can roll over and _surrender_.”

 

_Christ. If I save Mycroft, theres a good chance we can both find Sherlock and John before…_

“Tick toc detective, he doesn’t have much time.”

“I- yes. Yes, okay... I’ll play.” He snarled.

“Very good, Detective Inspector.” She praised, as if he were a trained pet, “Here are the rules, you will not alert anyone to the situation at hand, I will know if you do… No cheating.”

“Fine.”

“Very good. I’m going to give you a phone number. You will ring that number, over and over and over again, until theres an answer.”

 

_What kind of…_

 

“Is-is that all?”

“Quite.”

“And Mycroft will be safe?”

 

_You can’t trust her, Lestrade!_

 

“That is entirely dependent on you, Inspector, and your ability to follow instructions.”

 

_I can do this. For Mycroft. For Sherlock and John…_

“Okay.”

“Oh, there is one more thing…”

 

_Please no._

“You have just received another email. Please open it.”

Greg went to his inbox. There was the email. In the subject was a phone number. He opened it, and found a video of a dark room with a green tinted lighting; it looked like a prison cell of sorts. Someone was in the bed. Greg looked closer; he recognized that suit, he’d seen it earlier today.

“There’s your proof of life, Detective.”

“What have you done with him?” He demanded.

“Oh, he’s perfectly alright. Just sleeping. He’ll be up shortly. But you really should start dialing, Inspector, I would hate it if you had to watch him die.”

 

_Fuck… this is bad._

“Thank you for playing, Detective, it’s been enlightening.” She said cheerily.

“Wait!”

The line clicked.

 

_Fuck, Fuck, Fuck…_

********

 

Greg had been dialing for an hour and the fucking phone kept going to voicemail. He was frustrated, he was scared, he was…

 

_Desperate._

 

He thought about dialing Sally for help, but quickly cast it from his mind; this woman knew how to get to him. She would know how to get to Sally. He also felt a deep-seated sense of dread that, if he didn’t follow instructions, she would have no qualms killing Mycroft. He needed to do something. In front of him, Mycroft was still laying on the bed, unconscious. Greg wasn’t even sure that Mycroft was _actually_ alive.

 

_What if he’s already dead?_

*ring*

_What if shes just having you on?_

*ring*

 _You need help, Greg_.

*ring*

_John and Sherlock are out there._

*ring*

_No one is answering._

*ring*

_They are going to die._

*ring*

_It’s going to be your fault._

*ring*

 

_“Please leave a voice-”_

He jammed his finger on the end button. He needed to control his breathing. He would be of no use to anyone with a muddled mind.

After taking a deep breath to compose himself, he redialed the number.

Midway through the ringing, he noticed a movement on the screen. It was Mycroft, coming to.

_“Please leave-”_

He watched Mycroft sit up and look around as he hung up the phone. He was obviously startled. Greg could see him opening his mouth to speak, but the audio on the video was silent.

 

_Shit… Phone._

He redialed the number.

As the first ring came through his speaker, he noticed Mycroft stiffen on the edge of the bed and look around the room in confusion. He slipped out slowly and continued to assess his surroundings. Greg observed as the man took in his surroundings, cautiously moving around to search for something.

_“Please leave-”_

Greg felt his heartbeat lurch as he hung up and hit the re-dial button again. His mind was no longer registering the rings coming from the phone, he was entirely focused on Mycroft moving about the cell.

 

_Is there someone in there?_

_What is he looking for?_

_Who am I calling?_

_Am I really keeping him safe?_

_I don’t think I can watch him die._

 

Mycroft was slowly making his way towards the corner of the room.

_“Please leave a-”_

Greg dialed again.

Mycroft had made his way towards the other side of the room and was now reaching into a compartment beside the wall and pulled out…

 

_Is that a phone?_

Mycroft wore a look of confusion as he stood there perplexedly holding the phone in his hand. Greg could see the phone lighting up.

 

_It’s ringing…_

Just as the phone’s light went dark again on his computer screen, Greg heard the hauntingly automated voice on his end say, _“Please leave a voice message-”_

“Oh my god,” He breathed. He was calling the phone Mycroft was holding.

Greg didn’t care what was happening at the moment, all he cared about was the fact that Mycroft was alive and that he was holding the phone in question.

He quickly hit redial again.

 

_Come on Mycroft. Answer the phone._

Mycroft was looking at the screen, unreadable. Greg surmised that he was determining whether to answer.

 

 _Pick up…_ he begged in his own mind.

_Come on, come on, answer the damned phone._

On the screen, Mycroft took a breath, steeled himself and answered. Before Greg could speak, Mycroft was raging through the speaker.

“Eurus, I grow _tired_ of your _games_ , tell me what you’ve done to Sherlock and John!”

“Mycroft…” Greg said softly.

“-Lestrade?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Bear in mind I am still looking for a beta reader. PLease leave me some comments about how I can improve on my writing skills and style! Thanks!


	5. The Final Problem: Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg and Mycroft have to figure out how to rescue Sherlock and John. They have a heart to heart along the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a direction that I wanted this chapter to go, then I watched His last vow and realized that I didnt like where it was going. Soooo i fixed it. :)

The buzzing of his phone is what ultimately awakened him. Mycroft regarded that he was abnormally tired, but because of his unusual work schedule, he was accustomed to spending long hours on planes, and experiencing jet lag. He did wonder, however, what had possessed him to turn his phone on silent. Perhaps he had arranged something with Anthea, so that he could rest after his trip…

_Had he just come from a trip?_

When Mycroft opened his eyes, it took about a minute for his brain to catch up. He stiffened when he realized where he was.

_Sherrinford._

He determined that he was in one of the cells, in his sister’s cell, to be precise. He carefully sat up on the bed, attempting to awaken his groggy brain without jostling it around.  As he analyzed the room, he groaned internally at the beginnings of the migraine he could feel forming.

_No time. Why Sherrinford? Why was I-_

_Sherlock and John._

“Sherlock? John?” he called out, hoping for an answer.

His memories were flooding back to him. He had to find them before Eurus-

A cellphone started buzzing somewhere in the cell. He squinted his eyes to look for it. The room was dark despite the glowing green light that was above him. His feet touched the floor; he regarded the dense, solid concrete floors, and walls that gave off a chilling, eerie cold. Mycroft considered the room once more before deciding to get up to search for this mystery phone.

_Carefully. Eurus may be up to her tricks…_

The phone stopped for a moment, and he continued to explore the cell that he was in, little by little, to determine where the sound was coming from. He eventually found it in the compartment that Eurus was given items that she required. He picked it up and noticed that there was dried blood on it. Mycroft made a quick analysis of the phone, not dangerous, more than likely belonged to the late governor. Few people had access to this particular phone number. Moreover, even fewer would call as many times to have it answered. He came to the conclusion: _this is part of Eurus’s game._

He allowed the phone to go to voicemail and watched as almost immediately it lit up again. Mycroft steeled himself and took a breath, ready to face his sister once again, and answered.

“Eurus, I grow  _tired_  of your  _games_ , tell me what you’ve done to Sherlock and John!” He growled. After a moment of silence, the voice on the other end of the speaker not only startled him, but also made his heart lurch imperceptibly. 

“Mycroft…” Greg said softly.

“-Lestrade?” He asked bewilderedly.

_How on earth…_

“Yeah.” He heard Greg breathe in relief. “Oh, Christ… it’s _so good_ to hear your voice. Are you all right?”

“I-I, yes.” He stammered. “Lestrade, how did you get this number?”

“The woman who’s holding you gave it to me…”

Mycroft became rigid at the realization that Eurus had dragged Gregory Lestrade into their familial squabble. _What was the purpose? What had she done now?_

“I see.”

“Mycroft, whose phone am I ringing?” Greg asked cautiously.

“I believe it is the governor’s.”

“Where’s he?”

“Dead.”

He listened as Gregory’s breath hitched over the phone; perhaps he should have delicately mentioned the late governor’s untimely passing. Mycroft scrunched his face in discomfort, and he lifted his hand to the back of his head. He had been feeling a particular dull, stabbing pain since regaining consciousness. When he removed his hand, he noticed the small, dark, bloody smear on his fingers, accentuated by the green lighting.

“Mycroft, you’re bleeding…” He heard over the speaker.

_How did he know that?_

“How-”

“I can see you… the camera to your right.” He glanced up at the ceiling looking for the camera in question, “Sorry, it’s your left.” Gregory corrected.

Mycroft found the camera and peered into it for a moment before asking. “You… can see me?”

“Yes, she sent me this link…”

Mycroft barely registered the rest of what Gregory was saying his brain had begun analyzing the situation.

_Eurus brought Gregory into the situation, the game, but why? Greg is law enforcement. He is an ally of Sherlock and Doctor Watson. He is unrelentingly loyal. However, none of these things explains why he is calling me on the governor’s phone. Why did Eurus bring him into the game and then have him interact with me? The phone number he is calling from is not Gregory’s. It is later in the day, more than likely he was at work when Eurus intimidated him. He was relieved upon hearing my answer; perhaps she threatened his life, or Sherlock’s._ A dreadful thought sent every one of his thought processes reeling to a halt.

_Sherlock is still out there with Eurus._

“Lestrade-” he began while Gregory was midway through whatever he was saying, “I apologize for interrupting, but this is of extreme urgency. I need you to contact my assistant, Anthea. Tell her that I need a tactical assistance team at Sherrinford Prison. Tell her that this is a _Level 5_ Alert, time is of the essence, and Sherlock and John are in danger. Here is the number-.”

Before he can begin, he hears, “Woah, wait… I can’t-”

“Cannot what?” He asks incredulously.

“I… she didn’t…” Mycroft surmised that by the tone of Gregory’s voice, he was unnerved, but not with Mycroft. _Eurus must have threatened him, extensively._

“Gregory?” he urged softly, hoping that the concern that he feigned in his voice would calm Gregory enough to alert him to the situation.

“I don’t want to hang up and… something happen. I don’t… even if...” He listened as Gregory took a shuddered breath over the speaker, “I can’t have your blood on my hands, Mycroft.”

A memory flashed in Mycroft’s mind,

_‘Choose either Doctor Watson or Mycroft to kill the governor.’_

_‘I can’t do this… Can’t. It’s murder.’_

_‘This is not murder. This is saving my wife.’_

_‘I will not kill. **I will not have blood on my hands**.’_

_‘Killing my wife is what you’re doing.’_

 

“Sherlock is family.” He heard through the flash of his memory, “ _My_ family… after the divorce… and John...” Gregory was having a difficult time communicating what he was trying to say; _domestic, emotional, sentiment_. “Which, by extension, means that I will not allow you to die, I _can’t_ , Mycroft. Sherlock would _never_ forgive me. _I_ could never...” A silence crept throughout the cell.

Despite years of negotiation training, and conflict analysis and resolutions, Mycroft was unsure as to how to proceed. It seemed that Gregory had imprinted, on himself, a familial sense of purpose in order to protect both he and Sherlock. It was _fascinating_. There were few people in his life that Mycroft was certain he could depend and rely on, and even fewer who would protect him with as much urgency as Gregory Lestrade. He recalled their conversation from earlier today…

_‘There are secrets at stake… lives. I- I cannot in good faith entrust them to you… just yet.’_

_‘Lovely.’_

Yet, there he was, entrusting Gregory Lestrade, the man he had dismissed before with such uncertainty, with the most important life he could give… Sherlock’s.

“Gregory,” he began with an air of ambiguity, “we need to save Sherlock and Doctor Watson, which means that we must somehow find them, even if I am in this prison.”

“Mycroft-”

“John Watson said something to me today,” he interrupted, “which I believe is, applicable, to this predicament… ‘Today we have to be soldiers, and that means to hell with what happens to us’.” Uttering the statement aloud somehow made the room feel smaller, gloomier.

He could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “That sounds like John.”

“I am… counting on you, Gregory.” He said with as much conviction as he could offer.

“Can… I can use my desk phone.” He stated questioningly, “So that I don’t have to hang up…”

“If you believe that would help.” He was mildly impressed that Gregory had improvised without being prompted. Mycroft cursed himself for not thinking the same sooner; his mind was still catching up. There was a beat of silence that stretched between them both.

“I’m…uhh, pretty fucking scared, Mycroft...” Gregory admitted.

“I know.” He paused a moment before adding, “As am I.” He considered that perhaps his admission of caution would reassure Gregory in a way, however in the back of Mycroft’s mind he was also reassuring himself.

Mycroft gave him the number, and Greg repeated it, and took a deep breath before pressing dial, and putting it on speaker. After a few rings the automated voice spoke.

_“Please enter the 4 digit access code.”_

“The code is nine-nine-two-five. Then be certain to press pound.”

He listened as Greg followed the instructions, and the phone began to ring again.

_“Please enter the 4 digit access code followed by a voice identification.”_

“Don’t be alarmed,” he stated before Gregory could panic. “It’s a failsafe. Since I have been missing, Anthea has secured the line. Enter the code four-seven-three-four followed by the pound sign.”

Greg followed instructions again, and over the speaker Mycroft heard, _“Please press star to begin voice identification.”_

“Gregory, please get my voice as close to the receiver as possible. I am unsure if the system will reject my voice, as it is coming through another speaker…”

He listened as Gregory shifted the phone and pressed the star.

Mycroft stated his name, clearly and concisely. After a beat, he heard, _“Voice Identification: Accepted.”_

A stern and very irritated voice came through the phone almost instantaneously, “Mr. Holmes, I have been _frantic_ for _hours_! Where-”

“Anthea, I am in need of your assistance. I need a tactical team at Sherrinford Prison. This is a Level 5 Alert: Eurus Holmes has escaped, and time is of the essence. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are in immediate danger.”

********

_‘Eurus Holmes has escaped…’_

_‘Eurus Holmes’_

_Holmes?_

_As in…_

Greg’s mind trailed away from the conversation Mycroft and Anthea were having. He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. When you’ve spent enough time in the presence of a Holmes, situations such as these are bound to arise. Nevertheless, he couldn’t believe that there was another Holmes out there, just as brilliant and calculating as Mycroft and Sherlock, and that, for whatever reason, the woman was apparently a deranged criminal as well. As long as Greg could remember, it had only ever been Sherlock and Mycroft. There was never any hint that there even was any other family. Greg had a hunch that Mycroft was the only one who knew very much about this “secret Holmes.”

_Just another day of living with the Holmeses in my life…_

Mycroft and Anthea were arguing about something when his brain dragged him back from his thoughts.

“He doesn’t have that level of clearance, sir! I can’t just-”

“I am very well aware of that fact; I will take care of the paperwork at a later time!”

“This is a security matter!”

“I’m aware of what is at risk!” It was odd, hearing Mycroft raise his voice. Greg had only ever seen him with a cool and calculated persona.

_Maybe Mycroft has less control over his emotions than he lets on._

Anthea huffed quite loudly over the phone before biting out a brief, “I will be in touch momentarily. I’m putting you on hold.” With that, the phone went silent, and Greg was plunged into uncertainty. He wondered what they had been arguing about but decided not to ask. Even if he had, he wasn’t sure that Mycroft would tell him anything. There was a stillness that stretched between them, an uncomfortable silence that settled on his bones and made him anxious. He found that his shoulders were tense and his eyes darting around looking for signs of trouble. Greg’s attention was turned to the screen, however, when Mycroft sat back down on the bed, massaging his temple and forehead. After a brief and audible sigh, he listened as the man spoke again.

“Gregory, do you have a pen and paper?”

“Oh, uh, yes.”

“While Anthea is… occupied, could you take down something for me?”

“Sure, Mycroft.” Greg said uncertainly.

“Very good. In the event of my death, I, Mycroft Augustus Carlton Holmes, son of-”

“Woah, wait, Mycroft, I don’t- what are you doing?” Greg asked incredulously.

“Whatever do you mean?” Mycroft replied.

“Why are you saying these things? It-it sounds like I’m writing down last wishes.”

“You are, Gregory.” Mycroft stated candidly.

Greg’s mind started reeling, “Why-”

“I am- unsure- if Eurus has set a contingency plan in place.”

“Contingency?” _I don’t understand._

“Yes. She may not want me to be rescued from this cell.”

_Holy shit._

“You mean… when your team…”

“I am-unsure. And I am not accustomed to this feeling of uncertainty, so I find that I must prepare for every verifiable outcome.”

Mycroft was looking directly into the camera as he spoke. Greg listened to the straightforward, determination in his voice, masking the elusive distress in his eyes.

“Let me get Anthea back on the line…” he pleaded, “I’ll make sure she knows so that-”

“Gregory,” Mycroft interrupted brusquely, “we need to find my brother, however before I am to do anything, I must be sure my affairs are in order in case I am... to die. This is not your decision to make; it is mine.”

After reluctantly agreeing, Greg took down Mycroft’s words carefully. His heart was aching, this felt like he was condemning him to his fate, he hated every second of it. However, he felt it was an obligation, for him at least, considering he had been the one to find Mycroft in the first place. He drank in Mycroft’s every word, promising him in his heart that he would take care of Sherlock. It startled him, quite thoroughly, how much he had come to care for this man in a matter of hours. He could barely look at the screen anymore without developing a lump in his throat. This morning seemed as if a distant memory; he recalled the assuring, firm feeling of Mycroft’s grip on his wrist from earlier, it gave him a strength that relaxed his shoulders and mind.

_We’ll be okay_. He promised one more time.

“Thank you, Gregory.” Mycroft murmured after finishing his dictations. “I understand that you do not know anything in regard to Eurus, however, heed my words when I say that there is a method to her madness, no matter how complex, or simple.” He took a deep steadying breath. “She is our youngest sister; an undeniable genius, calculating, and unrelenting. This game she has recruited us for is one that has been in play since Sherlock was a child. Eurus would not have had you call me without reason, which means she may have left you a clue to the whereabouts of John and Sherlock. I need your focus, and I need you to tell me how you came to receive this number, from the beginning.”

_Youngest sister…_

“Alright.”

_Back to work…_

Greg’s cellphone made a quick shuffling noise before Anthea’s voice came through. “Sir?”

“Yes, Anthea.”

“We have a minor situation.”

_Oh god._

“What is it?”

“The tactical team is on a call. Someone made an anonymous report that there may be a package bomb at both the United States’ and Korean Embassies. Both teams have dispatched there to sweep the grounds.”

“Eurus’s doing, I imagine.”

“We believe so, sir.”

“Is there anything we can do?” Greg asked worriedly.

Greg watched Mycroft put down the phone for a moment and steeple his fingers, as similar as Sherlock when he is thinking. He found himself following Mycroft’s fingers up to his lips and tracing them with his eyes. He gulped noiselessly and bit the inside of his cheek.

Greg took his eyes of the screen for a moment, wondering why he had even felt the need to look at Mycroft’s lips.

He was simply worried. _That’s all…_

“Sir?” Anthea called over the phone.

“I think, he might be… thinking, Anthea.” Greg replied with an air of uncertainty.

Anthea huffed over the phone, “Is he alright, Inspector?”

Greg opened his mouth to speak but shut it again after realizing that he was unsure how to answer the question. “Honestly, I’m not all that sure.” Greg replied somberly.

Following an air of silence and anxiety, Mycroft retrieved the phone from where he placed it and stated, “Anthea, have either tactical team re-routed to Sherrinford once the sweep of the embassy is finished, we cannot take any chances in regards to Eurus. For now, I will continue to be of use over the phone. Gregory, we must deduce where she has taken Sherlock and Doctor Watson. Please, tell us about how she contacted you today, from the beginning.”

With some effort, Greg recalled as much as he could about the phone call that Eurus had made to him. It was difficult, Greg admitted, because at the time, he was sick with worry. He told Mycroft about the taunting, the references to Sherlock, and Mycroft himself, and about her mentions of Jim Moriarty.

 “Could she have taken them back to Bart’s?” Greg inquired.

“Sherlock’s fall at Saint Bartholomew’s was a masterpiece created by and for Moriarty himself. I do not believe that location would hold any significance to Eurus. We must assume that she has taken them somewhere of implication, somewhere that she is familiar with.” Mycroft huffed in irritation, “There’s information missing-”

Greg groaned as he placed his head in his hands. “I know- I know. I’m sorry.” He felt like a failure for not being able to recall information that was so crucial. His mind continued to tell him that their deaths would be his fault. “I can barely think,” he sighed. “It’s been a long and ridiculous day and I haven’t slept-”

 

_Wait._

_I. Haven’t. Slept._

 

“Oh god. That’s it.” Greg uttered.

“What is?”

“She’s _been_ calling me.”

“How long?”

“Days. Two or three. It’s always at night, always at 3 am. All she did was… sing this song.” He recalled those nights where her voice would keep him up and shuddered.

“She sang to you?” Mycroft questioned avidly.

“Yeah, it was this strange song-”

Before Greg could finish Mycroft’s soft baritone came through Greg’s speaker singing, _“I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree.”_

“Yes,” Greg breathed, “that’s it.”

Mycroft stood from the bed he was sitting on with a look of dread in his eyes. “Anthea, send a police unit to Musgrave Manor. It is our ancestral home, that’s where she’s taken them.”

“Right away, Sir.”

“Make sure DI Lestrade is in charge of the team as soon as he arrives, and send Sergeant Donovan as well, I assume that she will be of use to him.” He directed.

“I will dispatch them momentarily, Sir.”

“Don’t send Anderson.” He and Mycroft said at the same time.

“Very well. Shall I send a car for you, Inspector?”

Just as Greg replied with a firm “No,” Mycroft’s voice came through with a “Yes.”

Mycroft glared into the camera, “Gregory-”

“Mycroft, I’ve already told you that I’m not hanging up until I know you will be safe.” Greg resolved.

“The police team-”

“Will be _fine_ with Donovan.” He articulated. “She’s good at what she does, Mycroft. Put her in charge until I arrive because until then my arse is sitting in this seat, watching this camera, until either one of us is killed, you are rescued, or the _phone_ dies. That is final.” He declared unwaveringly.

Mycroft scowled into the camera as if to intimidate him but blinked and softened his face after a moment of reticence. “Very well, Gregory,” he expressed sullenly. “Anthea will have a car and helicopter sent, the moment I am pulled from this _abysmal cell_.”

“Yes, sir. I will be in touch, Inspector.” Anthea hung up the phone, and left Greg and Mycroft in yet another very long uncomfortable quiet.

With a clench of his jaw and a quick glare at the camera, Mycroft sat back down on the bed in irritation. “Why is it that you cannot leave this be?” he uttered bitterly.

“What?”

“My life… it is of _such_ little importance. Sherlock is _out there_ , with _Eurus_ -”

“What the _fuck_ did you just say?” Greg asked vehemently.

“I-” Mycroft faltered at his tone, “I was simply stating-”

“Mycroft, what the hell.” Greg whispered irritably. “Do you really care so little about your life? _All night_ , I’ve been trying to help you.”

“I never asked for that.”

“I’m simply trying to save you-”

“I never _asked_ anyone to save me!” He roared.

Eurus’s haunting words came to Greg’s mind.

_‘This is his redemption, Inspector. An, experiment, of sorts. I wanted to see if anyone else cares for him. I want to see if the Iceman himself can roll over and surrender.’_

All at once a sickening thought hit him, _What does he need redemption for?_

“I _never_ asked. I was- ready.” Mycroft said softly.

“Mycroft, what are you talking about?”

“Eurus, before she kidnapped Sherlock, told him to choose. Kill John Watson or kill me. One bullet. It would have ended this. And she knew...”

Greg was afraid to move, he was afraid to speak, for fear that Mycroft would stop talking.

“She knew Sherlock would choose John.” He continued. “She knew... given a choice, that Sherlock would kill me, to save his friend, and that I... would allow it. Because this was my doing.”

Mycroft used his free hand to rub his face in exhaustion.

“This was _all_ my doing. She never imagined, never calculated... that Sherlock would not make a choice. I was... an afterthought in her mind. My... living... was never part of the plan.”

_He blames himself for all of this._

“Even Jim Moriarty knew.”

_He was ready to die to save his brother._

“But Sherlock... in a way, chose you, Mycroft. He knows how much you care. He has to know how much you love him...” The words he was saying felt odd rolling off his tongue, and even stranger, because they were being spoken to a man, that Greg was sure, needed little self-reassurance throughout his life. Greg pointed his eyes towards the screen. Little by little, he noticed, that certain expressions of Mycroft’s mask were slipping. A furrowed brow, a quivering lip, but he remained composed as he continued to speak.

“Would you like to know what I was thinking... as Sherlock pointed the gun at my chest?”

_He wouldn’t have allowed Sherlock to kill John._

“Yeah, yeah you can tell me.”

_You can tell me anything._

“I... I don’t have one.” Mycroft uttered in dejection.

“I don’t understand-”

“A best friend... a confidante ... I have never had a-” the corner of his mouth came up to form a gentle smile, “a ‘John Watson’ in my life.”

_He’s never had someone to care about him…_

“Even Sherlock… managed to-” The sheer despondency, in Mycroft’s faltering voice was all he needed to know about the state of the man that was in front of him. “I have- no one. If I were to perish, the British government would move on, per the standard, giving my position over to Anthea, as I have trained her to do. In order to upkeep efficiency, I am to be replaced.” He took a ragged breath. “Sherlock would move on without me. In truth, he would possibly have me deleted from his memory altogether, and he would have yourself and Doctor Watson to care for him and protect him. My own mother and father comprehend that my line of work has its associated dangers and that, therefore, there is a higher probability of my early demise. I have managed to keep every passing acquaintance at a distance to keep from forming these sorts of attachments.”

Greg couldn’t even imagine keeping the people in his life at an arm’s length. Sally, Sherlock, John, Molly, Dimmock, even Anderson and his ex-wife. Every single person that he could think of brought an element to his life that he could not imagine surrendering; laughter, sadness, love, pleasure. Mycroft had given up all of these, intentionally, for the sake of simplicity, clarity, and focus.

“When Sherlock pointed that gun at me… I was unprepared for the level of- _emotion-_ that I felt. What I found was that I wanted someone… at least one person… to mourn me. One person, who would visit my grave. One person who, wants… for me.”

_He feels so alone…_

“It is... my greatest regret. My deepest affliction and my most significant flaw. But I have made this choice, and I would do so, again, and again, and again... if it meant that Sherlock...” He took a ragged breath but didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Greg understood that Sherlock was always at the forefront of his mind, his priority. His _family_. Mycroft would bring entire countries to their knees if it meant that Sherlock could be safe. His only brother; his greatest accomplishment. Mycroft had spent his entire life making sure his baby brother simply lived, but in turn, Mycroft had not really lived a life of his own. And in the end Lestrade’s heart ached for the digital image of the man before him, wracked with sadness. Shattered, like Mycroft’s seemingly permanent mask of neutrality. He closed his eyes as he listened to Mycroft’s labored breathing, and then watched as his free hand came up to smother the ragged breath that came through the speaker. Never in Lestrade’s life did he wish so fervently to be able to wrap his arms around a person, and it broke him to be able to do nothing about the man coming to pieces in front of him. He never pegged Mycroft as the type to feel any sort of sadness; then again, he had never seen the man show much emotion at all in the years that he knew him. It was a humbling experience to witness. In the back of Greg’s mind, he was honored that Mycroft felt comfortable enough to lose himself in front of him. For all it was worth Greg looked at the forlorn man on the screen in front of him and vowed…

_You will never be lonely again._

********

Mycroft’s mind cursed the heart that he was born with, every ounce of it and its associated sentimentality. He was Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, intellectual of the British government, the most powerful man in London, and yet there he was whimpering about a near-death experience and his misgivings. He was mortified with himself. He sniffled a few times and allowed his mind to take over once again, righting his composure and figure alike; relaxing his muscles, fixing his posture, he closed his eyes and craned his neck from side to side, then took a deep, a few deep, steadying breaths… and he was back.

_Much better._

Mycroft found that, once in a blue moon, a display of sentimentality was good for his body and mind, almost like a reset.

“I am terribly sorry,” he began as he looked at the camera, “I did not mean to thrust my many emotive impediments onto you, Gregory. I assure you my ramblings are quite finished.”

“Mycroft, judging from what you’ve told me, you almost died today, I’m nearly positive that you have a free pass to ‘ramble’.”

Mycroft gave the camera a small pessimistic smile. “While I appreciate the admonishment of my criticisms, I do not have the privilege of making such saccharine, unreserved statements for long.”

Over the past few years Mycroft had been allowing himself to slip. It was usually only in the presence of his brother, Sherlock, however he had been quite expressive in front of John and Mary as well. After that, he had vowed to keep it in check. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this emotional with another human being, let alone without the presence of his brother. He wasn’t even sure he had ever done this with his mother and father. His mind reveled in the fact that he had chosen Gregory Lestrade to be the canvas of this particularly poignant, complicated, brush of his emotionally expressive heart. The man was loyal, honorable, moral, decent, nurturing…

_He’s so human._

Yes, it had been a fine choice indeed. In his calculative mind he praised himself for being able to pick someone who he was sure would be an adversary to him. But deep in the trenches of his heart, he knew, there was another reason entirely, he just couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

“Mycroft, will you promise me something? Just one thing...” Greg inquired.

_Anything._

“I believe it will depend upon the nature of your request.”

“When you get out of here, and you will, promise me that you will do something for me?”

As ambiguous as the statement was, Mycroft found that he was amenable to anything that Gregory asked of him. “And that would be?”

“Live.”

Beneath Mycroft’s confusion, he detected the fondness in Gregory’s voice, and it stimulated a foreign sensation in his heart. “I’m afraid I don’t quite understand.”

 “Live.” Gregory stated simply, “If you won’t live for yourself and your own sake… live for mine.”

He allowed Mycroft to consider his words for a moment before continuing ardently, “Live a life you’ve always wanted. Fuck what everyone else wants you to do, or be, or have… just, live, Mycroft Holmes. Live like you’ve been absolved of every fucking responsibility you’ve ever had in your life.”

_Live. As if it were so simple._

_To him, it is ever so simple._

Mycroft had always allowed his mind to control his consciousness, it was his security, his sanctuary, but in doing so he had also created a life and a world for himself that allowed for little regarding thoughtlessness. He contemplated Gregory’s request.

“I’m afraid I am not at liberty to do what you are asking of me, Gregory. I have a reputation to uphold, a standard. I cannot simply throw it all away on a whim.”

Gregory took a deep breath and spoke with a fervency of a man who was not to be contended, “Fine, then just, do one thing; one reckless, ridiculous thing in your life. Something for you. Something you can look back on and say, ‘I can’t believe I did that’. Something that you bury in your mind and take out to remind yourself that you’ve _actually_ lived.”

He could hear the exhilaration in Gregory’s words, as if he was reliving every joyous moment in his life, “And once you’ve done that, do one more thing, it may take hours, may take years… but continue to do little reckless things in your life, Mycroft. Find a reason to live for yourself, in the tedium of normalcy all we humans are accustomed to… Can you do that? For me?”

For a moment Mycroft considered simply restating to Gregory that his life was perfectly well lived, and that there was no need for tedium and recklessness to be involved, however he stopped himself.

_One reckless thing._

_For me?_

He found himself considering Gregory’s proposal. On balance, the suggestion was made with no ill will towards the man. It was only one thing that he was asking. One. It was simple enough.

Wasn’t it?

“I, believe that is an acceptable compromise.” He found himself saying. He would analyze the choice another day. After all, he had his whole life to decide.

Looking back, Mycroft would realize that this was the defining moment. The exact point in time where he made a choice that ultimately changed the direction of his course. But by then, he wouldn’t care. An accord was made that day, and the man would spend his life keeping it alive. It all started with one word, uttered with cheerfulness, from the lips of a partial stranger, a man Mycroft would later come to trust with something more valuable than his life, his heart. And it all started with…

“Great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There might not be a chapter for about a week, or maybe just a few days. I have an online class that I've neglected and I need to finish the work before I can keep writing. Let me know what you think in the comments. :)


	6. The Final Problem: Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sally Donovan recieves a strange call snd comes to the rescue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's occurred to me that one character that we know even less about in the show is one, Sally Donovan. Don't get me wrong, she was kill list number one after Season two, but I couldn't help but wonder about her a bit after Season 4... Sally narrative, followed by a bit of Sherlock and Greg. 
> 
> I have decided to rename this work "A Study in Recklessness." May be subject to change, but it's growing on me.
> 
> Enjoy! :)

Sally Donovan was not a woman that shocked easily. She was tough, determined, not easily unnerved, and quick to learn. As the youngest of four siblings, all brothers, she’d grown up learning that she needed to be able to fight for what was rightfully hers and be resolute about it. She’d made her way up the chain of command in NSY easily, but frankly, she couldn’t quite make it to DI yet. She’d tried, oh, she had tried. Being assigned to Lestrade had been a godsend in the end.

 She had well and truly fucked things up when it came to Sherlock Holmes, even went above Greg and spoke to his superiors herself. She had been ready; ready to take her place as DI, ready to arrest Sherlock Holmes, ready to cement her place in NSY. It had been the right thing to do, at the time. She’d been so sure… but it all came crashing down when she heard that Sherlock Holmes was dead. It had been the _extremely_ wrong thing to do.

After the brief investigation, and getting her arse chewed out by just about every superior she could think of, she’d been left exactly where she deserved. Sergeant. She’d shown a lack of character, a lack of judgment, and worst of all she’d betrayed her best friend. Getting Greg to trust her again had been a challenge. He wasn’t just her superior. It was difficult having him look at her with such heartbreak in his eyes.  It had taken work, two years of rebuilding off a crumbled foundation, for him to start trusting her again, to forgive her. It took Sherlock Holmes literally coming out of his damn grave to get her to forgive herself.

When he returned Sally didn’t know what to believe. The papers all ran the same story, Jim Moriarty, Master Criminal Consultant, had orchestrated everything up until the day of his demise. He was clever… but so was Holmes. It was difficult, watching Greg go crawling back to him, in her opinion. But she would stand by him; It was the least she could do, right?

Strange things always seemed to follow when Greg or Sherlock Holmes were involved. It seemed as though chaos followed them like a puppy; sometimes they needed a voice of reason amidst the fallout. Sally knew that Greg sometimes needed a second opinion, a down-to-earth, devil’s advocate, comprehensively blunt opinion, and she would be there to give it to him when he asked. It was just the kind of person she was. All things considered, she should have been prepared for the phone call she received at 9:30 that evening.  However, what happened directly after was something that would haunt her for the rest of her days in the police force.

 She had been in the bath, relaxing with a barely touched glass of wine, when her cellphone rang and disturbed the tranquility of her bathroom. She dried her hand on her towel and looked at the screen.

**Unknown Caller**

She shook her head and laid the phone back down after silencing the ringer.

 _Bloody telemarketers._ You answer ONE online ad and suddenly every telemarketer and scammer in the country has your phone number.

She attempted to relax once again, but her phone rang again a few minutes later. She looked over the edge of the tub.

Still Unknown. _They really don’t give up do they?_

She silenced it once more before lowering back into her bath. She had been thinking about how to approach Greg on the subject of his sleeping. It was obvious that something was bothering him, but he wouldn’t tell anyone what it was. It was concerning for her to know he wasn’t trusting her again; perhaps she had done something…

When her text alert sounded, she was sure that she would have someone’s head. As she dried off her hands and opened her phone, she thought about the series of obscenities she would write out to whomever it was that was disturbing her evening, however, the text she read caused her brow to furrow in confusion.

**Ms. Donovan, please answer my next call.**

_What the hell?_

Almost immediately, the phone began to ring again. She answered it with caution and resignation. “Uh, hello?”

A firm, dignified female voice came through the speaker, “Sergeant Donovan, I’m terribly sorry to interrupt your evening.”

“Not enough apparently,” she quipped back. “Is there something I can help you with?”

“I am in need of your assistance on behalf of The British Security Services.”

“Security Services?” she repeated incredulously.

“That is correct.”

_This all seems a bit dodgy to me._

“And your name is…?”

“Unimportant to the matter at hand.”

_Of course it is._

“Right.” Sally tried again, “Who is it that is requesting me?”

“I am not at liberty to say at the moment, however, a DI Gregory Lestrade of New Scotland Yard has recommended you to us.”

_What’s Greg gotten himself into now?_

“Is Greg alright?”

“Yes. I assure you he is in no danger.”

_So security services needs me, for a mission that they can’t tell me much about, but Greg is involved somehow…_

“Let me guess- it’s the freak, isn’t it?” Sally asked derisively.

“I beg your pardon?” the woman retorted with an icy chill.

Sally winced and shook her head, “Sorry… old habits.” She needed to continue to remind herself not to be so contemptuous when it came to Sherlock Holmes. No matter what her personal thoughts were, you couldn’t throw a stone in London without it landing near someone who regarded the man as a saint. “Is it Holmes? He’s the one in trouble?”

There was a moment of silence on the phone where Sally realized she may have offended the woman on the other line much more than she’d realized. “The only information that I can give you now, Sergeant,” she stated with an air of aggravation, “is that yourself and a select team of officers have been highly recommended are required to assist Security Services in the apprehension of an escaped criminal. I can tell you nothing more until I have the proper authority to do so. Do you accept?”

Sally pondered for a moment or two, wondering whether it was a good idea to go running off with security services so late at night, and to capture an escaped criminal. But if Greg had suggested her it must have been of some importance… right?

“Uh, yeah, just give me a few to get dressed,” she said as she climbed out of her tub. _Thank god I didn’t get my hair in…_

“Very well, a car will be outside your flat in ten minutes.”

“Great.” It took Sally a few seconds to realize. “Hang on, I haven’t told you where I live…”

If Sally could have seen the woman on the other line, she would have seen a small smirk dance across her face. “Ten minutes, Sergeant.”

Sally held the phone to her ear for a full 30 seconds after the call was ended and decided to text Greg as she got dressed.

 

**Greg what the hell is going on? S**

**Why is security services calling me? S**

**I’ll explain later Sally. G**

**Thank you for your help. G**

**You owe me, big time! S**

**I know… Thanks again. G**

 

By the time sally was putting on her shoes there was a sleek black car waiting just outside. She almost contemplated not going.

_This is the type of shit that happens in the films._

As she clambered her way in, she jumped at the realization that there was someone else in the car with her; the passenger did not take notice as she was furiously typing away at her phone.

“Sergeant Donovan, thank you for your help,” she began without looking up.

“Yeah, no problem.” She said guardedly. “Where exactly are we going?”

“Before I am to tell you anything, I will need you to sign here.” The woman handed her a few pages attached to a clipboard and a pen.

“What is this?”

“It is a confidentiality agreement,” she said, “You are hereby given access to this case, and its subsequent arrests. However, you are not allowed to speak of its content, persons, or knowledge of this case without a person, or persons of security services there to monitor you.”

“Or what?”

The woman stopped typing and looked up at her with only the slightest bit of confusion in her eyes. “Pardon?” Sally could tell that most people would not have asked such a thing.

“What’s the consequence?” She repeated.

The other woman stared at her and blinked before looking back at her blackberry, “Use your imagination, Sergeant,” she stated delicately as the corner of her lip came up a tad.

“Ah, lovely.” Sally should have known that Greg would be the type of person to get himself into shit like this. She signed the forms quietly and handed them back to her mystery woman. “You can just call me Donovan, by the way. Everyone else does,” she stated matter-of-factly.

“Very well.”

“So, where are we going?”

“Musgrave Manor. It is the ancestral home of the Holmes family. Mr. Holmes has requested that this matter be taken care of as quickly and quietly as possible. We believe his sister has taken Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson hostage there.”

“Sister? I thought he only had a brother? The scary one that Greg told me about, who I am assuming you work for.” Greg had only mentioned the elder Holmes a handful of times. The man was just a myth for a while, a ghost lurking in the shadows, until she had seen him one day at a crime scene. She remembered thinking that there was no way that the man was related to Sherlock Holmes in any way, until the man began to speak to Greg. It was then that she noticed a type of refined manner of speech and deduction skills that only a Holmes would have.

“There are three Holmes children. Sherlock, Mycroft, and Eurus.”

 _What is it with this family and odd names?_ “And what’s the deal with her?”

The woman sighed audibly before speaking. “She is exactly what you believe Sherlock to be. A cold, remorseless, callous killer. A right sociopath. She has taken both of her brothers and John Watson hostage and threatened DI Lestrade all in the last six hours. We believe she has also killed quite a few people today in that time.”

_Christ. The Holmeses don’t do anything by halves, do they…_

“So what am I going to be doing?”

“The only thing you need to concern yourselves with is the containment of Eurus Holmes and…” the woman paused and looked at the files on her lap.

“And what?”

She huffed before picking up the top file and handing it to Sally, “This.”

The file was small, listed as a cold case on the front. It looked as if it had been untouched for a very long time.

“This is a cold case file from our archives, how did you-” The look at the woman’s face told her all she needed to know, “Right.”

Sally opened the file and read the name. _Victor Trevor_. “Why is so much of this file missing?” It was odd for a child’s missing person file to be so small.

“Here are the rest of the papers,” she told Sally as she handed them over, “they must, unfortunately, stay with me after you are dropped off at the manor.”

Sally glanced at the pages in the second file, witness reports, parent statements, police interviews, and a photograph of a family gathered in front of a very large white bricked house… _those eyes._

“Is that… Sherlock?” she questioned cautiously as she pointed to the curly haired child in the photograph.

“Yes.” The woman said solemnly, “Victor Trevor, six years old, went missing from the Holmes manor just shortly after a playdate. Right after he went missing, Eurus began to give the Holmes family- more specifically Sherlock- clues as to what happened to him, but he was never found. We believe that Eurus killed the boy…” She paused before adding, “He may or may not be hidden somewhere on the premises.”

Sally’s heart sank as she listened to the case, and her stomach recoiled in horror. “But this case is from years ago… she’d had to have been… at least six… She’s so little.”

“So was Victor.”

They rode in silence for a while Sally looked over the rest of the file in her hand. There was a part of her that was angry that this had all been covered up, but somewhere in the back of her mind she understood why. _They were just kids…_

“Did you ever meet her? Eurus?” Sally asked curiously.

“No…” She said after a moment of silence, “I don’t have that level of security clearance.”

_Oh._

She left it at that. No need to pry any farther. It was a startling revelation to know that the woman before her probably knew secrets that would bring England to its knees… but had never been in the presence of the secret Holmes child.

They came upon the house soon after. The outside was lit up with the headlights of the several police cars and emergency vehicles. It was not the house that Sally was expecting to find. The place was licked black with the ashes from a fire. To say it was in disarray might have been kind; Sally wasn’t actually sure that the building was stable.

As if she had read Sally’s mind the woman stated, “The manor was afflicted with a fire… shortly before Eurus’ incarceration. It’s supposedly stable. Everyone is awaiting your instructions, Sargent Donovan.”

She nodded contemplatively as she stepped out of the vehicle, observing the scene around her.

The door suddenly closed, causing her to turn, and the sleek black car made its way up the gravel driveway away from the house and disappeared.

She turned once more and took in the scene in front of her; her mind making decisions on how to proceed the house. _Time to get to work._

 

********

 

 _Rope. Rope. Have to find rope._ The key in his hand felt especially heavy to his flustered mind.

Sherlock had asked Eurus to help him save John Watson. In turn, what he had received was an old skeleton key and another performance of his favorite song _. A key. Key to what. The chains obviously, he’s chained in the well._

He ignored the deductions that told him John would drown before he arrived.

 _Panicked mind. Slowing me down. Can’t find the rope._ He began throwing around things in the house _. John is drowning. Have to find the well._ He opened a cabinet door. _Where is the damned rope?!_

“Sherlock!” He heard a panicked call from the monitor on the other side of the house.

_John. Rope. I need a rope!_

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried to remember where in the blasted house his parents would have kept a damned rope.

_Mummy didn’t like clutter in the home. Clutter in the home means clutter in the mind she used to say. No clutter in the mind. Must find that rope. Where would father have hidden it?  Father didn’t mind clutter. His mind was always cluttered. Cluttered with work. Cluttered with home. Cluttered with children. He didn’t mind clutter; he worked in clutter. Wait._

_The shed.. Of course!_

He cursed his panic-riddled brain for overlooking the length of rope that was laid in his father’s shed. Sherlock quickly grabbed it and ran in the direction of the well. He had hardly remembered where it was until Eurus had whispered the song to him again.

_Deep down below the old beech tree…_

_Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go…_

_\- right back over my hill…_

_Lost forever, nine by nineteen…_

Sherlock, as a child, had not even been aware of the fact that Eurus had known about the well. There _had been_ an old well on the Holmes Manor just past a hill and a clearing of beech and willow trees by the end of the river. As a child, Mycroft had not been allowed to go near it; it was an old, damp, unfinished well. Just a hole in the ground, six feet in diameter and spanning sixteen feet under the ground. It used to be covered… had been for many years by a metal plate that their father had secured over it for the safety of the children. Mycroft had mentioned it to Sherlock one day many years after the fire. How Eurus knew that it was there was beyond even his comprehension. The brush that had grown around it from years of neglect made it nearly impossible to find. It was intended to be a dug well, supported by the river just meters away, a little artificial outlet of the Thames, an artificial river spanning 9 feet wide, and 19 kilometers in distance. The deductions continued to fly towards Sherlock as the song repeated itself over and over in his mind. He batted them away; none of it mattered now. None. Victor was gone, his sister had beaten him; all that mattered in this moment was John. He had to save John.

 

“Sherlock!” He heard somewhere in the distance.

 

“John!” He called back. The echo back from the surrounding trees made it difficult for Sherlock to pinpoint the location. He called again, “John!” A faint sound of splashing water is what ultimately led him in the direction of the well.

 

********

 

Sally had the eeriest feeling as she and the rest of the tactical team crept through the burnt-out manor. When they had first arrived, they had encountered a monitor showing Doctor Watson in distress. Sally had immediately commanded them to start sweeping the grounds. They made their way up the stairs carefully, every creak on each step accentuating the unnerving feeling that was creeping through her. They cleared each room on the second floor until they came to the final door at the end of the hallway. Sally saw the hesitancy of the entire team. There was a faint noise coming from behind the door. Someone was mumbling, or humming, she couldn’t exactly tell. The door creaked open to reveal a woman, eyes closed, rocking back and forth on an old mattress. She had been humming, repeating a tune. Her radio suddenly crackled as an officer on the grounds informed her that they has not located Sherlock Holmes.

 

At that the woman suddenly opened her eyes and looked directly at her. Sally felt her heart clench in fear as the woman’s unnerving grey eyes made contact with her own. She tried not to falter, not even a little, as the woman continued to stare at her, unblinking.

 

“Have her detained,” she ordered after mustering up some courage, “don’t bring her down just yet. We still have to find John and Sherlock.” Sally broke eye contact with the woman as she turned to take control of the ground search, however she could feel the woman’s eyes watching her all the way down the stairs and out the door. She shivered as she made her way out towards the police vehicles. _Holmeses_.

“Any sign of Holmes or Watson?” She called to the nearest officer.

 

He shook his head. “Both still missing, Sergeant.. We’ve set up a perimeter, but there is more acreage that needs to be expl-”

 

She held her hand up to him. “Did you hear that?” She asked curiously. _It sounded like shouting._

“No ma’am, hear what?”

Sally _had_ heard something, she was sure of it. It was faint, out past the grounds.

The bustle of the different personnel and vehicles made it difficult for her to hear the “-John!”

“Give me that bullhorn.” She ordered quickly. “Everyone shut it!” She bellowed loudly. The grounds stopped. Everyone held their position, as she waited in the partial silence.  After a few moments, she heard from somewhere beyond the grounds, “John!” _It’s Sherlock._

“There! Follow that noise!” She ordered as she pointed in the direction of Sherlock’s call, “I need emergency services on the north side of the house!”

She and a few officers made a mad dash in the direction of the noise. Her heart was pounding as she gave a command to spread out. “They can’t be far.”

She paused and listened. As clear as day, she heard Sherlock call “John!” followed by a faint “Sherlock, I can’t find it!”

“I got it!” The thick brush growing in the gathering of trees scraped and scuffed her limbs. She stumbled across some tree roots as she searched for the men with her flashlight. _They’re here somewhere._

“Hang on John!” She heard directly in front of her.

 _Shit._ As Sally cleared the brush away, she discovered Sherlock struggling to pull up on a rope that was lowered into the ground. The man turned to look at her. For a moment, Sally was taken back by the look in his eyes. _Sherlock Holmes is terrified,_ her brain told her. And it was true.

After being on the force for any amount of time it was easy to pick out people’s emotions based on simple things, faces, gestures, _eyes._ Sherlock’s eyes were wide with panic, fear, dread… Sally was startled. Plain and simple. She had never seen this much of any _emotion_ ever come from Sherlock Holmes, much less that of fear.

He regarded her confusedly, “Donovan?! What are you-” _John is stuck down there._

That thought pulled her out of her startled trance. “Shut up and pull, Holmes!” She yelled as she clutched the rope and helped him pull. “They're over here!” she called out between fruitless tugs. The rope was wet and slippery and her hands burned with every additional grasp. “Sherlock!” she heard John holler from below. She and Sherlock couldn’t pull him up. Her arms began to tremble as she attempted to ground herself in the dirt around her. Her brain wasn’t even registering what was going on around her; the only thing she could hear was the sound of her labored breathing and the beating of her own heart.

She gasped in pain as the rope slid through her hands and she readjusted her grip quickly. There was a tugging on John’s end followed by a harrowing splashing noise. “The water is still rising!” John shouted. _He must have been trying to climb out and slipped_. After the rope became weighty in her tender hands once more, she watched as Sherlock visibly clenched his teeth and heaved with all his might. The rope inched up very little with their combined efforts.

“We need help!” she exclaimed to anyone who could hear her. Every attempted tug brought forth a glimpse of doubt. She thought of Greg and his fondness for the two men in her vicinity. _Would he blame me? Would he forgive me? Would Sherlock?_

It would never come to that, thankfully. Several officers found them moments later and lent a hand. Three labored pulls later, a hand reached up from the earth. Sherlock was breathless as he reached towards the ground to pull up on it as the officers and Donovan gave a final pull on the rope.

They all sat panting for breath. Sherlock and John were kneeling in a shaking embrace.

“I need a medic!” Sally called out between winded breaths. Two of the officers that had helped them pull, ran off into the brush again, going to find the medic.

“John, you alright?” She questioned after a few moments.

“P-P-Peachy…” John shivered as Sherlock took off his coat and draped it over him. She was rather disconcerted, watching Sherlock tend to John. She had never seen him do anything like this before.

“Eurus. She’s in the house.” Said Sherlock abruptly, as he began to stand.

“She’s already in custody,” she reassured him. “I believe Security Services has her taken care of.”

“Is she t-t-talking?” John chattered.

“No, hasn’t said a word.”

Emergency personnel came and began to examine John. He chattered his way through the conversation as they draped a blanket across his shoulders. Sally suddenly became aware of the pain in her hands again. She glanced at them in the moonlight, and saw the streaks of blood coming from the rubbed scratches from the frayed rope they had been tugging. Sherlock must have noticed her grimace, because moments after a sanitary wipe appeared in front of her face. She took it slowly, noting the slight tremble in his fingers. “Thanks,” she mumbled, but Sherlock didn’t respond; he was looking in John’s direction, observing all that they were doing, not just observing, scrutinizing. She took it in silently. _I’ll be damned. He’s human after all._

“Where’s Lestrade?” Sherlock asked sharply, as if hearing her thoughts.

“I don’t actually know. He was supposed to be here soon.”

She witnessed as John and Sherlock seemed to have a silent conversation before John said, “I’ll be fine, Sherlock. Go.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. Go.” John took his jacket off from under the blanket and handed it to Sherlock, “Don’t catch a cold.”

“It’s wet.”

“Yeah, well…” he waved his hand around. Sherlock began to put his coat back on as John turned to her.

“Hey Sally. Did you bring…forensics with you?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Um… there’s a body- um- a skeleton, in the well…” She noticed Sherlock stiffen out of the corner of her eye. They both turned to regard him as he, looked down into the well, lifted the collar on his coat and turned to walk away into the dark brush.

 _It must be Victor Trevor._ “Right. I’ll get forensics on it.”

“Thanks.” John nodded as he turned to gaze into the well again. She noticed him shiver a bit and couldn’t help but wonder if it was because he was cold, or because he might have just escaped the same fate.

 

********

 

Greg and Mycroft sat making idle conversation until the security team arrived. Thankfully, it did not take as long as they had originally predicted it would. As promised, there was a car and a helicopter ready for Greg to go rescue Sherlock and John. Mycroft mentioned to Greg to call him with any updates, and Greg intended to make good on that promise.

He texted Sally just before stepping into the helicopter and anxiously awaited to hop out and start giving instructions when it landed near Musgrave. He took a moment to assess the house. It was ashen and scorched from the flames that had consumed it, in actuality Greg wondered how it was still standing at all. The overgrown greenery, mangled among the tombstones and the ruins of the house exterior made the house look eerie in the flashing lights of the many police cars. Greg looked over and noticed a few members of his team huddled up by the ambulances. As he approached the huddle one of his men, Samuels, beamed a smile at him.

“Boss! We didn’t think you’d make it.” The other officers turned to regard him.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, for dragging you all out of bed. What’ve we got?”

“Well sir, Donovan is working with forensics ‘round past the back of the house.”

“Why forensics?”

“Says there’s a skeleton at the bottom of the well they pulled Watson from. She said she’d update you later.”

“Very well.” Gregory turned and watched as a group of men in police uniform walking a woman to an awaiting cell.

 _Eurus Holmes_.

They made eye contact for just a moment, but Greg felt like it had lasted an eternity. It was as if her eyes bored into his soul to found his deepest secrets and memories. Greg saw nothing but emptiness in hers, an emptiness he’d noticed before.

_Must be a Holmes family trait._

As she was led away, he glanced over and noticed John and Sherlock, both watching Eurus. Sherlock was looking as collected as ever, John on the other hand was still shivering slightly, wrapped up in a blanket. He walked over to them.

“I just spoke to your brother.”

Sherlock and John both turned to Greg as he spoke. “How is he?”

“He’s a bit shaken up, that’s all. She didn’t hurt him.” He paused before adding, “She just locked him in her old cell.”

“What goes around comes around,” mumbled John. Greg didn’t think anything of it; he knew how John felt about the eldest Holmes.

“Yeah. Give me a moment, boys.” he said as he made his way over to get an update from the other officers.

“Oh, um. Mycroft –” Sherlock began quietly. Greg turned to listen to him. “Make sure he’s looked after. He’s not as strong as he thinks he is.”

_I wouldn’t worry about that, mate._

Greg only nodded in agreement. “Yeah, I’ll take care of it.”

“Thanks, Greg.”

John, who had been huddling into his blanket, lifted his head just as Greg turned back again. Both men looked at him in surprise before Greg continued to walk away.

_Imagine that._

Eurus was being loaded onto a reinforced cell inside one of the police vans. _Precautionary measures_ , Anthea had called it.

_She doesn’t look like she could hurt anyone..._

_Make sure to take note of anyone she speaks to_ , Mycroft had said.

But she never did speak. She simply sat there, watching, glancing around with her empty eyes.

Greg found the nearest officer, “The helicopter ready?”

The officer nodded. “Mm-hm.”

“Let’s move her, then.” He announced loudly so that everyone around would take heed. Several officers began to bustle about in preparation for the transport. The officer with Greg nodded in Sherlock’s direction.

“Is that him, sir? Sherlock Holmes?”

“Fan, are you?”

“Well, he’s a great man, sir.”

Lestrade contemplated that for a moment. He recalled a conversation that he’d had with John. It seemed like it was so long ago. They had all been so young, limitless, and carefree.

“No, he’s better than that,” he stated mindfully, “he’s a good one.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many, many, thanks to my Beta reader/editor Lyricoloratura. You're the best! Great minds think alike!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I've been gone so long! School and life are killing me at the moment. And it's spring which means allergieeeees.

“You okay?” 

John had noticed Sherlock’s quiet demeanor for some time now. It was unusual- well- unusual for Sherlock, that is. Then again, he  _ had  _ just had the most emotionally exhausting twenty-four hours since Moriarty strolled into their lives. If John was honest with himself, he’d have taken that particular madman over Eurus any day. 

“I said I’d bring her home.” Sherlock replied quietly, continuing to look in Eurus’s direction, “I can’t, can I?”

_ This must be so hard for him. _ He understood what it was like to love a sibling that was so out of reach. In a way, if Eurus had kept to the straight and narrow, things would have been so different. He almost wondered what  _ that  _ version of Sherlock would have looked like.  _ This _ Sherlock was so… sad. 

“Well, you gave her what she was looking for...” He paused and clarified. “Context.”

Sherlock turned to look at him, “Is that good?”

“It’s not good, it’s not bad. It’s ...” He looked away and scrunched up his face, searching for the right words. His mind recalled a memory from the end of the Culverton Smith case. 

“It is what it is,” he finished.

_ And what it is, is ... shit.  _ He mused to himself.

_ “John, do better,”  _ he heard Mary say to him in his mind.

“It’s not going to be easy, Sherlock. She’s… killed people- today.” John searched his mind for the right words to say to his friend, “You... won’t be able to help her right now. But Mycroft will inevitably pull some strings, Eurus will go back to Sherrinford… and we might get some…  _ peace _ … for a while.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth ticked up a bit as he considered John’s words. “How dreadful,” He mused.

_ Truly.  _ John attempted to smother a laugh with the corner of his blanket. This action only caused for Sherlock to start grinning uncontrollably. Both men smothered their snickering and John glanced at Sherlock as his mind recollected their very first case together. 

“We can’t giggle, it’s a crime scene…” he reminisced, as he grinned broadly at Sherlock.

Sherlock regarded him with a look that John couldn’t quite read. But he was smiling in the very least. That look made John’s heart flutter a bit; It was humbling, in a way, to know that he could make Sherlock look at him like that. It would be worth it, he thought, to never have another day of peace in his  _ entire life _ , if it made Sherlock Holmes smile at him like that every day.

A passing police vehicle broke them of their trance.

“We should go… I need to get Rosie.” John checked his watch, only to frown at it furiously. It was dead, of course.  _ Shit. _

“Is Sarah taking care of her? It’s late.”

John thought about leaving her at Sarah’s but decided against it quickly. He knew she wouldn’t mind; after Mary died, she started asking to watch Rosie more often, for John sake, he was sure; it was difficult, caring for an infant while mourning. “Yeah… but I’d rather… you know. I just need her… near me.”

“Yes.” Sherlock replied simply as he and John made their way towards a waiting vehicle. 

A thought occurred to him.  _ Oh, bloody hell. _ “So…I suppose you’re staying with me for the night?”

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and wrinkled his brow in confusion as he turned to look at him. “Why would I-” John saw the instant that Sherlock put the pieces together, “Oh.” 

“Did you really forget?” John chuckled.

“I must admit my mind has been entirely preoccupied as of late…”

221B was still in shambles after the bomb that Eurus had sent them that morning as a wakeup call. Mycroft had already assured them that Mrs. Hudson would be taken care of. Sherlock on the other hand…

“Well, it’s a good thing I have a couch.” John smiled as he gestured towards the car.  

“Mycroft should have a few changes of clothing that I can collect from his London flat.” Sherlock stated. It was obvious that while he wasn’t excited about going to stay with John, he wouldn’t oppose either. 

“Well go ahead and give him a call,” John said, as they climbed into the car. “But first, Rosie and food. Indian or Chinese?” There were several places that were still open at this time of night, it wasn’t the first time John had gone searching for sustenance in the middle of the night after a case. “We’ll pick it up on the way.”

After getting their situation squared away, John felt the degree of just how exhausted he was. He made sure Sherlock and Rosie were settled for the night before he laid in his own bed. He couldn’t quite close his eyes yet. Every time he tried, he felt like he was drowning. Instead, he stayed awake, looking at the pictures on his phone, until he relaxed enough to rest and let his body and mind relax.

  
  


********

 

Dealing with the Eurus Holmes situation had been fairly simple with Security Services involved. On the other hand, Greg already knew that dealing with the discovery of Victor Trevor would be a nightmare of paperwork. Sally had already taken care of forensics when he arrived at the well. She was having her palms wrapped when he finally met up with her. They exchanged stories, and he reminded himself that he would give Sally a week off when this was all over. 

While they were bagging the bones, Greg took a quick glance down the well. The lights they had used to brighten it glared off the murky water that had stilled at the bottom. He couldn’t believe John had been down there. 

The scene was clearing quickly, and he decided to head back towards the station. It was around midnight when Greg received a text from Sherlock. 

 

**I thought you said my brother was “alright.” SH**

Greg read the message again in confusion.

 

**What do you mean? G**

**He’s in the hospital. SH**

**What? G**

Mycroft had not mentioned anything to him about going to a hospital. Greg had even been texting him updates on the situation. Mind, which the other man had not even bothered to answer, but that didn’t mean he was in any trouble.

**Surely I don’t need to repeat a text, Lestrade… SH**

**Go back and read it again. SH**

 

Greg could practically hear the distain in Sherlock’s tone. 

**I didn’t know he was in the hospital. G**

**Where? G**

**Barts. SH**

**Mycroft went to Barts...? G**

**Precisely. SH**

 

Greg  _ did _ think it was strange that Mycroft went to Barts, of all hospitals. Sherlock apparently shared the same response. He fired off a quick text before hailing a cab outside the station. 

**I’ll check on him. G**

**If you wish. SH**

Greg smiled a bit. He knew Sherlock wouldn’t have texted him unless it was at least somewhat important that he checked on Mycroft. 

**I’m sure he’s alright, Sherlock. G**

**It makes no difference to me. SH**

He rolled his eyes before sending:

**Right… G**

Greg made his way through the hallways at Barts, and stopped at the nurse’s station to ask where Mycroft was. He had made some friends over the years, charming as he was, and they were always happy to help him. 

“Sorry, Greg, I’m not seeing anyone by that name…” said the nurse on duty.

“That’s odd…” 

_ Maybe he had already been discharged.  _

Just as that thought was finishing in his head, he saw a young man walk by, on the other side of the nurse’s station, in a black suit, and a matching stony expression. 

_ Spook.  _ “I think I found him,” he told her, “thanks.” He winked at her before following tall- dapper-and-spooky through the halls to, what he assumed was Mycroft’s room. 

There were two men posted outside the door. 

“Can you let Mycroft know I would like to see him, please?” he asked them. 

Neither of them spoke to Greg as he stood in front of them, waiting.

“Alright then…” He pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft.

**May I come in? G**

Greg pocketed his phone and waited. The door opened from the other side and another well-dressed young man ushered him in. Mycroft was sitting on the chair next to the bed, still dressed in the suit he had been wearing all day. He looked up as Greg walked in.

“You came to a hospital.”

“Yes, I was not allowed to return to my home without seeking medical care beforehand.” He stated with a gesture of his hand. “It’s all been… tedious.”

_ Bit hurt that you’d lie to me.  _ “And?”

“Only minor cuts and bruises. No concussion. Perfectly healthy.”

“And you’re alright?” Greg wanted to be sure that Mycroft was still coping, especially after the conversation they’d had over the phone.   
“I have been given a clean bill of health to return to my home,” he replied dryly.                                                             
Greg raised his eyebrow at him. “Come now… That’s not what I asked.”    
“I believe it was, Detective Inspector…” 

Greg furrowed both brows in confusion.  _ Detective Inspector? What happened to ‘Gregory’? _ Mycroft was speaking to Greg as if the conversation they were having was tiresome and dull.    
“No... I asked if you were alright... mentally. Are you alright?” He questioned. Greg tried to think if perhaps he had done something to offend the man before him.    
“Sherlock asked you to come see me.” He stated.    
“In a way, I suppose. He said ‘he’s not as strong as he thinks.’ But I was the one who decided to come see you… make sure you’re alright.”   
“Well I hate to disprove his theory. But, evidently, I am quite alright.” Mycroft made a fleeting hand gesture. “My mental faculties are in order and I have no further need to stay in this room for much longer, other than to sign the forms and satisfy your line of questioning, Detective Inspector.”

That statement hit a nerve with Greg. He crossed his arms as he furrowed his brow and bit the inside of his cheek. Greg was only checking up on him. Why was he acting this way? Was he angry with him? “Did…” he was going to ask if perhaps he had done something to offend Mycroft, but he shut his mouth almost as quickly and realized that he did not want to have this conversation with a fly on the wall.   
Greg turned to the assistant standing in the corner. “Can we have a minute?” he asked kindly. 

While the man said no words to Greg, he turned to address Mycroft. Mycroft nodded and the man slipped out and closed the door behind him. There was an uncomfortable silence that lapsed between them while Greg decided what to say. 

He decided on concernedly asking, “Why are you doing this?”   
Mycroft made no noticeable facial expressions as he answered Greg in a tiresome manner. “I don’t understand.”   
“You keep... doing that. What did I do? Did I offend you or something? What the bloody hell is going on that you’re being…” he gestured at Mycroft as if to accentuate what a ridiculous prat he was being.    
“Inspector, are you quite alright?”   
“Don’t... don’t do this.”  _ I don’t have the patience for this. _   
“Do what?”   
“Act like nothing happened, Mycroft.” Greg noticed that he was starting to raise his voice and took a deep breath to calm himself down.   
“I’m sure I have no idea what you are referring to.”   
“Mycroft,” he sat on the bed in front of the man to level with him, “we- had a heart to heart when you were in that cell... we actually  _ communicated _ . And now you want to act like nothing happened. I don’t understand. If you feel embarrassed or... I donk know...”

_ Stop babbling, you idiot! _ He scolded at himself.

“What I mean to say, Mycroft, is that I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with the conversation that we had today, I know you- said some things that may have made you feel- um- vulnerable- I suppose- but you don’t have to keep hiding it anymore, Mycroft... I already know.”   
“I apologize Detective Inspector... If you believe that our  _ chat _ changed the dynamic of our relationship,” he said impassively. “But I must remind you that I have very little inclination to delve into these... feelings... you have in regards to me.”   
_ What?!  _ “I don’t-”   
“I assure you that anything you think you may have heard in regards to my personal state of mind was spoken out of duress. I was playing a part, Inspector.  _ The helpless victim. Desperately hoping to be rescued _ , so as Eurus would not simply do away with me, but seeing as how that time is now quite behind us, I believe that we should continue about our lives in a more professional manner, yes?”    
Greg felt like he’d just been doused with ice water and slapped in the face.  _ Just playing a part. More professional...  _ “Is that so?” he grumbled.    
“Yes, quite so.”

Greg was irritated at this point. Mycroft was obviously back to being the aloof, detached person he was.  _ Why did I think that things could change? Did I want them to change? What is it that I’m doing here anyways? The man obviously doesn’t care to be near me.  _

“Ok. Fine.” Greg bit out as he stood up, “I’ll tell Sherlock you’re alright.”

Greg barely had time to reach for the door handle.   
“Detective inspector, there is still a matter of security that we must address.” His hand clenched and he closed his eyes.  _ Breathe... _   
He opened his eyes and looked out the door. “Such as?”   
“Many of the things you have heard and seen today are above your clearance. I will need your signature on a number of forms in the morning. I will also need the files on Victor Trevor and the subsequent paperwork. I will send a courier in the afternoon, if that will suffice?”

The silver haired man whirled around and glared at the younger man in the chair.  _ Send a courier. As if I was one of his underlings... _   
“Piss off.”   
“I-I beg your pardon?”   
“I said:  _ piss- off-, Mycroft.” _ He seethed. _ “You’ll _ bring them yourself or not at all.”   
“I cannot-“   
“Yourself... or not at all.” He repeated. “If you want to be an absolute arse then I can return the same sentiments. I’m not your minion, I’m not a pawn, and I’m not one of your lackeys… up until this moment I at least thought we were friends, but since you want to return to being  _ professional acquaintances _ , I can tell you that if you send anyone to pick up the files other than yourself I will send them back with a photocopy of my middle finger.”   
Greg turned and stalked out of the room, slamming the door for good measure. 

 

********

Sherlock watched from the corner of the room in a chair as John began to stir from a nightmare.

The man had finally fallen asleep at some point. Sherlock, on the other hand, hadn’t been so fortunate. Even if he had wanted to sleep, his mind was still relentlessly working through th

night. He knew his body was tired… but there was little he could do in that respect.

He’d, instead, decided to watch as John slept. He wasn’t entirely sure where the idea had originated from. But after a careful analysis of his mental state and faculties he came to the conclusion that he had decided to watch John sleep out of fear.   
_ Fear. _ He sneered at himself. _ Fear of what?  _

It was illogical for him to be  _ fearful.  _ There was nothing to be afraid of! Well-not anymore. He had taken care of the threat. Eurus was back in her cell…

_ Where she belongs.  _

But that sentiment wasn’t entirely accurate. He had told Eurus that he would bring her home. Somewhere in his mind the child version of him  _ wanted _ to bring Eurus home. He had not  _ vowed _ to do so, however, since his track record with keeping them was… ill-fated. Sherlock knew very well that Eurus was never going to be able to leave Sherrinford. She had killed people. He hadn’t been able to save them. He hadn’t been able to save Victor either…

Sherlock had few memories of his friend. Since his brain had rewritten them he had attempted to try to reconstruct them for hours now. One particular one made him smile. It had been one from the day they met. 

 

_ Sherlock was sitting by the river, analyzing the stones, when a shadow had crossed his view. He looked up to find a boy standing before him. He did not know where he had come from, but he noticed the mud on his boots and thought that perhaps he had been exploring the bogs.  _

_ “Hi!” said the boy cheerily. _

_ “Hello.” Sherlock replied quietly. He was holding his rocks against his chest, afraid that the other boy might try to take them… Eurus always took them. _

_ “I’m Victor,” the other boy smiled at him. _

_ “My name is Sherlock.” _

_ “Sher-lock?” the boy pronounced again. _

_ “Yes.” _

_ “That’s a nice name.” _

_ Sherlock blushed and smiled at the other boy. “Thank you.” _

_ “What are you doing, Sherlock?” the other boy asked curiously. _

_ “I’m cataloging river stones.” _

_ “Cataloging? What’s that?” _

_ “I’m looking at them and studying the outsides and putting them in Mummy’s flower box for safe keeping.” _

_ “What are you looking for?” _

_ “I wanted to see how quickly they would grow mold… based on the amount of time in the river,” Sherlock mumbled. Most people outside the Holmes clan were put off by Sherlock’s curious nature for experimentation, but he so enjoyed studying things.  _

_ “Cool!” The other boy beamed. _

_ After a while of Sherlock teaching an eager Victor how to determine the stone’s age based on the ridges and pores on the stone surface, Victor asked, “Do you want to play pirates with me, Sherlock?”  _

_ “Pirates?” _

_ “Yeah! We can go looking for treasure!” The boy exclaimed with a twinkle in his eye.  _

_ Sherlock smiled at his new friend and put the rocks back in the river. “Let’s go ask my mummy.” _

_ They played and played until the sky was painted with streaks of orange and blue; laughing and running till their lungs ached for breath.  _

_ “Will you come back and play tomorrow, Redbeard?” _

_ The other boy nodded excitedly. “Redbeard and Yellowbeard! Pirates forever!” _

_ “Friends forever.” _

_ Sherlock hugged the other boy and then watched him scamper towards his home on the other side of the river until he was a small speck in the distance. He hadn’t noticed his father’s presence. _

_ “Made a friend, Sherlock?” _

_ Sherlock turned and smiled brightly at his father. “Oh, yes! His name is Victor and he is ever so kind, father, he is going to be my friend forever.” _

_ The older man tussled the fluffy curls on his son’s head. “That is wonderful news, son. Now,” he outstretched his hand, “Mummy is waiting on us for dinner.” _

_ “But I’m not hungry…” Sherlock pouted as he took his hand.  _

_ “I’ll make sure you get a hob-nob out of my secret hiding place if you eat something,” he smiled kindly at his son. _

_ Sherlock giggled, “But Father, I already know your secret hiding spot!” _

_ He chuckled. “Then it will be our little secret,” he whispered mischievously as they walked hand in hand towards the manor. _

 

The day Victor had disappeared was a blurred haze in his mind, but one particular thing did stand out. 

 

_ He and Victor were running towards the river. Mummy had allowed them all to go so long as Mycroft was in charge of keeping a watchful eye on the children. Eurus was running with her toy airplane close behind them. _

_ “Let’s search for treasure, Sherlock!” called Victor. _

_ The boys were on their way to leave towards their clearing of trees when Eurus ran towards them. “Sherlock, I want to play hide and seek.” _

_ “Eurus we can play after.” _

_ Eurus frowned at him, “You never play with me anymore, Sherlock. Mycroft is too slow. Mummy is too slow. Play with me, Sherlock! Play with me,” she begged as she ran around him with her plane. _

_ “I want to play with my friend, Eurus…” he said softly. He ran off and called for ‘Redbeard’, who eagerly jumped up from kneeling near the rocks to go play.  _

_ Sherlock turned back, just for a moment, and fleetingly caught a glimpse of Eurus. _

 

Sherlock swallowed the lump that was fast forming in his throat, followed by the pain in his chest. He sniffled, and evidently it was enough to startle John’s barely sleeping form.

“Jesus, fuck!” he cursed as he sat up and clambered in the sheets. He glared astonishingly at Sherlock in the chair. “Sherlock, you scared the living daylights… what the hell are you doing?!”

_ I don’t want to go to sleep. _

_ I don’t want to be alone.  _

_ I don’t want to close my eyes. _

_ What if you disappear again _ ?

“Sherlock?” John tried again.

“Hide and seek.”   
“Sorry… what?”   
“Hide and seek... it was her favorite game.”

John sat up in bed, the duvet slipping down to reveal his bare chest. If Sherlock noticed, his brain didn’t register it. It was too busy remembering Eurus’s face, how  _ hurt _ she looked.    
“We used to play among the gravestones together. Or in the house with mummy and father. 

Eurus was always so clever with her hiding places. Sometimes I couldn’t find her for hours.”

He breathed shakily, and he could feel his hands begin to tremble. John watched him with an expression Sherlock did not understand, but he was silent, and listened as Sherlock continued to stumble over his thoughts.

“When Victor... We were such good friends... He wanted to play pirates with me, but she… she wanted to play hide and seek. I decided to go play with Victor instead...”

_ I chose Victor over Eurus. _

“She wanted me to find him... to play hide and seek...” his voice cracked, and he swallowed.    
“Sherlock...”   
“I couldn’t find him, John. Not until she told me.”   
“Sherlock, this wasn’t your fault-”   
“She wanted me to find her too. The little girl on the plane.”    
“Sherlock-”   
“I would never have found you either, not till she wanted me to.” He took another steadying breath, “I wasn’t… I’m not… clever.”

John uncovered himself from the duvet and flicked on the lamp, “Sherlock. Stop. Okay? Stop it.” He yanked on a t-shirt he had sitting on the floor and went to go stand in front of Sherlock, “You’re sitting here blaming yourself for something that happened when you were  _ children _ .

It’s  _ not _ your fault.  _ None of this _ was  _ your _ fault. If you want to blame anyone… blame Eurus… or Mycroft…”John steeled himself for a moment and laid his hand on Sherlock’s. “Look, I get that you were all smart; you lot were clever, but… Sherlock, you three were just  _ kids _ . You were young… and… I know… I probably don’t understand. I’m not… I’m not as clever as you… but… you were  _ kids _ Sherlock. And I don’t know how to express that any other way…” Sherlock could tell that he was trying, really, he was. 

“I repressed and re-wrote the memories… all of them… so I wouldn’t remember… I thought… Redbeard was a dog…”Sherlock felt a drop of moisture slide down his cheek.  _ Blast.  _ “Why?” he whispered as he looked directly into John’s concerned eyes. “Why did I do that? We were friends, he was my best-” Sherlock clenched his eyes shut as he picked up his knees and curled up in the chair. He tucked his head into his arms, and folded himself up to keep from John’s observant gaze. He hated himself for being so utterly vulnerable. It was ridiculous…

Sherlock continued to steady his breathing while hiding himself from John. If Sherlock  _ had _ continued to look into John’s eyes, he would have noticed the affectionate, brokenhearted gaze the man was giving his friend. 

After a few moments of uneasy silence, John began to speak. “I never have gone into detail with you… about Afghanistan.”

Sherlock looked up in confusion, wondering what the topic had to do with the current emotional breakdown his heart and mind were determined to make him suffer through. John had moved himself to the edge of the bed, and was sitting on the corner, looking at the ground.

“It’s because… well, I can’t. Not really anyways...” His eyes came up to meet Sherlock’s. “I don’t… remember a lot of what happened. After I got shot, one of my mates told me that I was in the hospital for weeks. Kept sedated… because of the nightmares.”

John closed his eyes and looked back at the ground. “But I don’t remember what happened that day… or why we were being shot at, or where we were… I can’t. I’ve tried… believe me,” he swallowed, “Sometimes I try to remember them- the nightmares- thinking that maybe it’ll piece everything together… What happened that day… But my- mind- won’t let me remember…” 

 

He took a deep breath and gazed at Sherlock. “My therapist said that my mind wasn’t ready to handle it yet… so it stored it away- or something. And, in a way, maybe that’s what your brilliant mind did, Sherlock. It locked those memories away, veiled them in something kinder, because you weren’t ready… back then. Your mind knew that you could handle it… in time… So, it’s okay, Sherlock. It’s okay that you didn’t remember him at first… you were going through an emotional trauma. But you remember him now, don’t you?”

Sherlock nodded numbly as he took in John’s words. He marveled at how John could make it all so simple… John was so much cleverer than he would ever understand.

“Remember him then, Sherlock. Remember all the playdates, all the laughter... remember those times. Because even though Victor has… passed… he was never really gone. You’ve always carried a piece of him with you, in your memories...”

If John said anything after that point, Sherlock didn’t hear a word of it after he closed his eyes. His brain was filtering through the recollections: every laugh, every smile, the mud victor had clumped in his hair, the time that they climbed the tallest tree on the grounds, their cake prank on Mycroft, sitting in front of the fireplace in a sheet tent as Father told them a story… all of them. He felt his heart twinge in physical pain, and he tried to control his ragged breath. 

When he opened his eyes, John was gone from the room. Instead, there was Victor, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet dangling off the edge. He was wearing his favorite tattered up jumper and his eyepatch. His small wooden sword clung to his belt loop. The boy beamed at him. “Hi, Sherlock.”

“Hello, Victor.” He choked out. “It’s been... so very long.”

“Why are you sad?”

“I have... missed you, very much.” He smiled kindly at him. “I am sorry that I have ignored you for so long...” 

Victor smiled at him and hopped off the bed to stand near him. “Are we still friends, Sherlock?” the boy asked curiously.

“Best friends, my dear Victor.” Sherlock said as he drew him in for a hug. It surrounded Sherlock in a warmth and happiness that he had only experienced a handful of times.

_ “Sherlock?”  _

_ John... _

John’s voice dragged him from his mind palace. “Sherlock?” 

Sherlock blinked and regarded his friend. “Are you… going to be alright?” John asked concernedly.

“Yes.” He answered, unsure if that was indeed how he felt. It suddenly occurred to Sherlock that John was probably trying to ask him to politely leave so that he could rest. The blonde-haired man was sitting in front of him in a t-shirt and boxers.  _ Certainly, he feels embarrassed. _ “I will… go back to the couch.” He said softly as he began to retreat from the room.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes?” He answered, standing at the door.

“Just… stay here.”

Sherlock looked at his former flat mate in bewilderment. 

“In your room?” he asked out of clarification. 

“Yeah… just…” John mumbled something incoherent as he walked past Sherlock and out into the hallway. Sherlock’s mind was reeling.  _ John asked me to stay. With him. In his room. But where is he going? Is he not staying? John wants me to stay. Why does he want me to stay? _

John returned moments later with an extra Duvet from the linen closet and handed it to Sherlock. “You can lay on the duvet and cover yourself with this one.” John’s cheeks turned a shade of pink as he spoke.

“I…” Sherlock closed his mouth. He had no idea what to say.

“Just… before I change my mind, Sherlock.”

He crawled back under the covers and turned his back to Sherlock. He noticed John fiddle with his phone for a bit before flicking off the lamp. 

A few moments later, after recovering from the shock of it all, Sherlock laid down on the bed and relaxed. 

He could have sworn for a moment before he fell asleep, he heard Mary chuckle. But that must have been a dream… right? 

**Author's Note:**

> Please feel free to comment about how I can work on my writing style and any comments you have about the story in general. I'm loking for a Beta, if anyone is interested please email gracefullstress@gmail.com.
> 
> Also if you would like to suggest another title for this work, I am open for Ideas. This is the working title because I couldn't think of anything. :P
> 
> :) I wont have a set posting schedule because... well... life. 
> 
> By the way @Mottlemoth is my inspiration so go read all of their stories because they are literal fuckin' gold.


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